what the fuck are you doing?
straying away from our intrinsic agreement
“never expect anything – leave no room for disappointment”
but there you go.
expecting to snag a man who will know your worth and even more.
expecting that he will put you on the throne you deserve.
expecting him want you, need you, more than anything he’s ever known.
expecting him to unravel in artistry centered around the topic of you.
expecting that he will go to the ends of this earth if it meant it’d make you smile.
expecting him to trust you. believe in you.
expecting that he can see the moon and the stars and the rest of the universe that lives within your eyes.
expecting that he will do something with that gravitas.
expecting that he is so thrilled with the idea of watching you age – by his side.
expecting that he will become your home, even though he’s merely skin and bones.
expecting that he’ll reserve his kindest remarks for you and only you.
expecting that he will discover your beauty, intellect, resilience, especially in times when you see quite the opposite.
expecting him to understand even when you don’t make sense at all.
expecting that he won’t rip you apart limb from limb and allow you to live in such a state of affliction.
expecting that he’ll instead lend you his limbs, his organs, his blood, to keep you alive.
expecting that he’ll do so because damn, his presence might as well be eradicated if you’re gone for even a minute.
expecting that he’ll look at all the spaces you once occupied and promise himself to keep you there.
expecting that he will see you as the counterpart for his survival.
expecting that he will thrive from your inspiration and desperation.
expecting that he will be the kind of man who will do something when he actually has the chance to do so instead of lamenting when it’s all too late.
expecting that he knows you are his dream come true and it doesn’t get any better than this.
stop it. STOP.
stop with the expecting.
stop with the disappointments.
save your heart, my love.