For You

It could be said that he was shy.  Some might think him a bit conceited, perhaps too smart.  His friends laugh at him; his acquaintances feel a bit intimidated.  He is a man who I could fall in love with.  He is also a man who I could hate.  At one point I was infatuated, and then I was disinterested.  He seems too full of himself, yet when I look closer I realize he is someone who doesn’t really think himself impressive.  We share the same interests, but not the same desire.  At one point I imagined him inside me, filling me up and making me into something that was not entirely real.  Then I realized this longing was but a figment of some dream I had created.  I had him try out for the part of my lover and then I realized he was not right.  He didn’t quite fit.  He has fantasies of perfection.  He doesn’t see that this is not an attainable state.  His wants are not probable, too far from reality to ever come to fruition.  I don’t tell him this because I don’t like to disturb his illusions.  We skip through the streets, laughing and full of whimsical thoughts.  Drunk on the idea of something perfect.  I look at the stars and tell him of my aspirations.  He laughs at me, almost condescending, but then I see his eyes and know he doesn’t mean it.  He has a gentle side.  He loves animals, lesser creatures that don’t make him feel beholden.  I tell him perhaps he lives in yesterday and his wrinkled brow makes me retract my brash statement as I figuratively brush his errant hair from his brow.  He smiles and his eyes twinkle.  I cannot let this minimize the fact that he does not want me.  Although I think perhaps I still fancy him, I know this is but an idea that my romantic heart has brought forth to detract me from the fact that my life is not what I want.  We drink and toast our independence.  All the while wishing that we had more.  He says he doesn’t care that he is alone.  He is strong, stalwart, able to brave the cold winds of isolation without a care.  I feel the shudder of abandoned dreams, but shrug it off in my brave stance of autonomy.  He is still handsome, his lips a promise of something sweet and unknown.  I turn my eyes away even as I tease him with words of seduction and promises of ecstasy.  He laughs at me, sure in his knowledge that I am not what he yearns for.  I laugh at his ignorance of what he is missing.  We say we are friends and lock arms on the way home in the dark.  I imagine teasing him with my mouth, my words, my hands.  I want to make him shudder at my touch.  I smile at the thought of him forgetting everything but the smell of my skin, the taste of my tongue.  I realize this is just my own need to be the victor and laugh at my ridiculous need to win.  We go to sleep at night and sometimes I touch myself in his bed while he lays in the other room, pretending it is his hands, his mouth on my hot skin.  I smile at my own silly appetite for things I am told I cannot have.  I wish for his happiness and dream of my own completion.  As my plane takes me thousands of miles away from his scent, his voice, his presence, I realize the truth.  I see that it was all a fantasy.  I am happy at the thought of the friend I have gained, yet cry at the memory of the lover I created that did not exist.  His words still linger in my mind and I still think “what if” and berate myself for wondering.  I have made a friend.  I have lost a lover.  I am still me.  He is still him.  We are still alone.  And the moon still laughs at our ignorance and revels in our inability to see the truth.

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