When I was a child, my mother told me there was a place where broken dreams went to be fixed. I imagined it was like Santa’s workshop, but instead of wood and plastic, it was the veins of hearts being mended back together.

Little boxes with smashed corners that used to hold trust and dignity being moved by small cranes being manned by even smaller elves. Across the workshop floor they’d move. From loading dock to work bench in short order, but the work of repair could take a while. A lifetime even I’m told.

In the very back of the workshop, sits the most broken dreams. There’s a soot of despair that coat each one. The boxes we all carry and stack and move and rarely unpack are back here. The lights flicker as if to warn you as some impending doom that awaits as you take your step into humanity and its richness.

These are the stories we tell ourselves. Collected on torn pieces of paper that contain phone numbers of strangers and prayers we can’t express out loud. The stories that define us aren’t the ones you’ll tell me later, they’re the ones you’re afraid to say to anyone. We’ve all got that box hidden away.

And now we’re here. In the present day. It’s just you and I. Words not exchanged, but interest piqued. I know where I’d take you once you opened your mouth. A cabin not far from here. It’d smell of spring until dark. Then the smell of burning wood and bare skin pressing against bare skin takes over.

I’m sure you’ve heard the promises of men like me before. The way they let the words slip out of their mouth as if on accident and then forget that it was their strong chest that pushed them out. It makes me hesitant to mention much. But if you’re looking for an escape with someone who can carry a conversation and probably make you blush before you say goodnight, I’d love for you to reach out.