I can see us sitting across from each other at a diner or semi-casual restaurant. Exchanging pleasantries. Laughing at our silliness and fuck ups. At our failed relationships and agree that a warm bed, warmth from another person, is severely missed more nights than you’d like to admit.
And we’ll look at each other and see the possibility that maybe we’re the one to warm the bed. But not just in a sexual way. But warming the bed with big and little spoon heat. The kind that calms you automatically because it’s the breath of fresh air you’ve needed and fought to say “I don’t need it.”
So we make a trial run that night. And it feels right. But then you begin to doubt it as he’s saying the things you wanna hear, start to believe it, but doubt yourself due to all the times it’s been said, but never done.
We’ll look at each other and want to give it genuine try. But you know it’s 75% not going to work. Yet, sometimes, the 25% gives you the fill needed.
One of us will think we‘re the 75%, but know we‘re always going to be the 25%. And it’s almost always me. And you’ll wish it was me, that I deserve to be someone’s him and you grow a little sad that it isn’t nor will it ever be.
So you stick to your type, never wanting to venture out of it, despite wanting the disappointing cycle to end and wanting so bad for it to be a different him but that will never be.
And you can see me being the him but you can’t attach feeling to what you see you want with me. The never-forced random discussions in bed filled with laughs and rolling around kissing. Why am I not the him?