Man of My Dreams

He’s not the man of my dreams. Far from it, he’s not really like any person I could have ever conjured up. He seemed so quiet when we met, but I know now that is not the case. He can speak for hours on politics, on history, on the current state of the world. He doesn’t judge me when I cry over earthquakes, famines or children left without their families. He doesn’t hold me either. He learns about the things that hurt me, he does his best to find ways to help. Sometimes, that just means listening as I choke out the same “it’s just not fair”s while night turns to day. He listens.

He’s not the man of my dreams. And he doesn’t care to be. He knows where I am, right now, and wants nothing more than for me to be my own friend. He encourages and he validates and he makes me feel so deeply seen. Even when I hate it. Maybe especially then. A part of me wants to worry that he’ll leave, but a voice in my head that sounds like his screams back that that is not possible. That is the best voice in my head, and I know it cares for me more than I do. 

He’s not the man of my dreams. No, we are friends. He tells me about his struggles with the girls he’s dated, the people he’s loved. I show him the people on dating apps and ask for help understanding the riddles three in front of me. We scroll together  like it’s a game. We formulate responses. We laugh so so much.We dutifully assist, because we only want the best for each other. 

He’s not the man of my dreams. I don’t feel compelled to look perfect, laugh correctly or hide the tiredness of life from him. He’s seen the best and worst of me since we met. He’s never been scared away, no matter how much I try to scare him. The worse it seems, the closer he feels. He gives me space but I know he’d be there with a safety net of steel if I needed it. Even on my worst day, I can say the same. His enthusiasm cuts through the fog of my exhaustion and I am never never too tired or sad or bored or over it to hear about something that excites him. And that, like Emily said, is the thing with feathers.

He’s not the man of my dreams. He doesn’t tell me how he feels about me, because we are friends and that is the most important thing. I think I know, and I think he does too, but we are quiet about just this one thing. It is the greatest mercy, floating there. Instead he tells me he can hear the smile in my voice when we’re arguing and promises never ever to lie. He messes with me constantly but would sooner capsize the ship of his own life than upset me at all.

He’s not the man of my dreams. But he makes it clear that nothing from even the darkest recesses of my stupid brain will convince him. In the dark, he holds the thoughts that frighten me so that I can fall asleep smiling against his back. Even though it is too hot, and we are “just” friends. He says he isn’t his own friend now either. Perhaps we’re the friends the other needs until we can be our own. Should it scare me to think I might prefer it this way, entirely entangled?

He’s not the man of my dreams. But he sits with me in the dark when the demons try to tell me this whole thing would be better if I joined them. He used to think of me as effervescent, carefree, but he’s learned of the little monsters inside me that tell me everything, especially me, is wrong. He’s still never stopped calling me things like radiant or charming, but now he calls me brave, too. My brain struggles between its inability to process those things and its need to believe every word he says. 

He’s not the man of my dreams. But he makes me want to write again. Long forgotten were the joys of putting idea to paper and letting someone else read it. But to see the way his face falls when I note parts of me I long to remember, it fuels me more than anything could. He wants me to be better, for me not for him. He wants me to be better, but accepts me as I am. Even as it unravels more and more from the version of me he first met. Especially then. He tells me I feel real, even when I argue I am a figment of someone else’s imagination. He agrees to be one, too. Maybe we really are imaging each other.

He’s not the man of my dreams. But he answers every question I have about whatever he’s talking about. I’ll take his call when I won’t respond to others. Time with him feels like time alone, in all of the best ways. He sends me videos, and I watch them all. He laughs at me when I’m being an idiot and takes on my jokes as his own. Sometimes, he takes them too far, until I’m crying tears of joy like a rain wiping out terrible fog. It returns, but he has yet to leave.

He’s not the man of my dreams. But he’s taken every personality quiz I’ve thrown at him and genuinely cared to compare answers. He takes the most flattering wording of the mindlessly long reports and says “that’s you” even when I’m trying to find out what lie I told to have received such an outcome. 

He’s not the man of my dreams. But I can see the way he looks at me through the pictures he’s always snapping when he thinks I’m not looking, and when that’s actually true. They aren’t fake laughter and big smiles. In most of them, I wear a look of amused annoyance, but if you look closer, my eyes cannot hide how happy I am that he sees me. It surprises me to see it, I miss looking at the world that way. How it makes me want to cry to have sunsoaked images of myself curled up with a book and existing freely. I cannot imagine how much of his camera roll I take up. 

He’s not the man of my dreams. But sometimes I wonder.