Starbucks. Monday night. 8:45pm.

My own heart is ripping me apart.
It yearns for the comforting and familiar,
for the smell of baked bread,
for worn letters from good friends,
for familiar smiles and heart-warming laughs.
It yearns for well-known nooks,
for dog-eared books,
and for a home to call its own.
It yearns for Christmastime,
friendly smiles, family all around, shiny gift-wrap.
For soft fur and a warm tongue
to lick away any tears.
For a hand to hold,
and a heart to be safe next to.

My heart is ripping me in two.
It longs for adventure,
for foreign, winding streets,
for the smell of fresh bread on every street corner
for breath-taking chateaux and looming Alps.
It longs for never-ceasing surprises,
new holidays spent with kindred strangers,
a change!
It longs for a break from the monotone
from the same worries, same fears,
for a chance to be itself without the bonds of reputation and expectation.
It doesn't need a hand to hold
because a passionate kiss would be enough.

My heart wants both,
and I am scared of either.