Sometimes I admire the person I am.
In nearly every aspect, I am the human of my dreams. I want to fall in love with myself. She is bold, and has lips made of pillow soft temptation.
She works til her hands, back and legs ache. She pushes me to be more, to want more, to settle for nothing less. She is lazy. So divinely so, a painter could capture her being with plenty of time for touch ups. She is athletic, and not.
She has great fucking taste. So great in fact, I get jealous, as if I could be in two places at once. She is tall, broad and doesn’t shrink from the space she takes and makes her own.
She considers the outcome of words, and thinks about them long after they left her mouth, because they mean something. Words that mean something, fuck. Can you imagine? Even in a rough draft, they are meaningful.
I am the human of my dreams.
I walk in a long gate, because my legs are strong, long, and grip tightly to the bucking ride life has gifted me. How could I even dream up a partner that tries as hard to be an equal to myself as I do?
Moving furniture, learning how to tear down walls, and build ones with love, meaning and function. Doing every job i never expected to do, and with only and hour or two of complaining/questioning/doubt, honestly nothing in the grand scheme of things. I will not stop trying, it may be slower than others, but divine in its own timing, as I am.
I am everything I’ve ever wanted.
I dress like the person I wouldn’t dare to take my eyes off of across the street or room.
She’s everything I ever dreamt about, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating because how could anyone else ever compare to me.
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