Updated: Jan 18, 2019
I never thought I would have fallen in like with a brown-eyed, pimply faced boy like you. It’s funny, really, because you don’t even deserve my adoration. Yet, here I am ready at the door, waiting for your cue so I could fall into your arms, melt into your kiss, and all that cliche nonsense I never knew I wanted. Oh, chance would be a fine thing, wouldn’t it? I know you just sit at home or at work minding your own chaos. I bet I don’t even cross your small little mind.
I can’t quite put my finger on why I want you so much. My dreams consist of a fellow that is dashing, who probably wears glasses and maybe reads a lot of books. Someone knowledgable on a wide range of topics would be nice so I could always be learning as well. He would dress like a gentleman and have a well-paying job which allows him to spoil me with dinners served on cloud 9. You, my dear, are nothing of the sorts. Your patchy beard and sloppy outfit do not match your soul dressed in a suit with swede shoes. You may not have much to say on typical school subjects, but your life experiences contain more insight than a biology book. You do not earn all the money in the world, but you take care of those that matter with the money your bank holds for you. Everything about you is intriguing, and I cannot get enough of you though you mistreat me so.
You say I will meet your dog, we will bake the finest desserts, and you will take me somewhere that I can get dressed up for. Yet all I get from you is an empty arrow with no comment in return. I live in the desert for months at a time before you decide to bring me a five minute rainstorm and a sign that says “Future Ahead.” So, I start walking your way with hope and excitement for a nourishing relationship. Then, like a magician, you disappear. I am left with half empty cacti that would not know how to respect women if handed a “Respect for Dummies” manual. I guess I get so excited for you because although you only show up once in a blue moon, it is the moment all other moments strive to be. It is the kiss for which all stars wait to spotlight; the midnight for which the universe spent the previous eternity planning.
I suppose I should give up planning my future based on one present moment, but how can you blame me when that moment deserves to be lived for the rest of my life? Obviously, you do not agree. If you thought that moment was worthy of a life, you would be running out of your sunken couch to your dented car, revving your engine too much to start it, driving the speed limit to my house (because no one is worth driving recklessly for) while listening to Wonderful Tonight, and knocking at my door ready with only open arms because flowers are crossing the line into *too* cliche. We would talk about who your dream dad would be and how my dream house looks. You would tell me how your mom engrained respect for women in you and what movies make you cry. I would tell you why poetry runs through my veins and why I disapprove of the girl I see in the mirror. We could microwave freezer food because neither of us know how to cook a real meal, and we could dance around to the three songs we both actually like while we are waiting for the cookies to bake. All this would happen if there was even the tiniest inkling in your bones that made your mind even consider pursuing an adorable mess like me.
Nonetheless, here I am, typing a letter that you’ll never receive while the baby for which I am sitting is sound asleep worry free. She needs to do nothing, and the world is still handed to her. Her dreams must be of her previous home in Heaven, while mine wake me up four hours too early in a sweat. And you! Oh, you. You probably are catching hooligans in the parking lot, thinking about who would be willing to bring you Taco Bell at such a late hour, forgetting that I once offered you more. I waste shooting stars on you hoping that you would get over yourself, and get over here. Alas, I will continue wasting the corpses of trees on all that could have been.