Two weeks. I have two weeks to debate, mull, imagine, curse, anticipate, dread, long for, and run from our eventual collision.
I was once so excited at the prospect of sitting across from you at some table. Sipping a cocktail. Enjoying your presence.
And now I am fucking terrified.
You are not what you seem. And my brain knows it. It’s screaming at me to run. Put as much distance between the two of us as possible. And then my brain takes another turn and decides this all sounds incredibly romantic. An imaginary pull… It belongs on a movie screen.
But it really doesn’t.
People are simple creatures with wants, needs, and desires. It doesn’t take me very long to discern ones intentions or wishes whilst in their presence. But you, my dear sir, are a blank space. An empty page. I cannot find your motivation or intention.
I’ve fallen for a projected image of myself. You reflect back whatever I feed you. I think that’s what you meant by the mirror. I know because I do the same. It’s funny to fall in love with yourself and yet hate yourself at the same time.
I want to know who the man behind the mirror is. But peeling back the layers is becoming exhausting. And I’m more aware now. I see that I’m just pulling back my own layers. There is no you. There is only me.
I just want you all to myself.
I have to stop chasing this romantic notion. This fantasy. Fantasies are not real. And life is for the living. The flesh and blood that sleeps next to me. This man that I honestly love with all of my fucking heart. I need to build a life with him. Because people disappoint constantly. When you put people on a pedestal you eventually learn it was unfounded and they fall from grace swiftly and sometimes painfully.
I stupid hate you.
I stupid fear you.
I stupid miss you.
And I stupid love you.
I stupid love me.