An Open Letter To My Perfect Love I Have Yet To Meet

Woman wearing an off the shoulder shirt looking away
Stas Svechnikov / Unsplash

I’ve loved the idea of you ever since I began to comprehend what love could truly mean.

I spent a shockingly large portion of my life with you locked within a dark abyss in my heart. Riddled with insecurities and self-doubt, I gave parts of myself away to people who were mere facilitating rungs, while you remained on an unreachable pedestal.

I’ve wanted to be with you, but you know how it is.

People tell you that the perfect lover doesn’t exist. That when you do fall in love, your perception of the perfect lover changes. Yet, here I am, in and out of love more times than I can count. And I all I do is look for you in the eyes of the lovers that lack the empathy you would have had.

All I do is wish that the tenderness you possess could somehow manifest itself in those who hold me close with a coldness that lacks the fire of passion that undoubtedly burns within your soul. All I do is wish and wonder. Wonder and wish. Ask questions, reflect, think back and wear myself out wondering if I should keep searching.

Perhaps you’re too good to be true.

Maybe I can’t have roses and chocolates, because you think they’re a cliche. Maybe, I can’t be your priority, because, let’s face it, people are lost within themselves, buried under the weight of burdens they themselves must carry. And sure, maybe it’s unreasonable to desperately crave a set of ears that will listen intently, for having someone hear me out might just make it easier to fight through the pain.

But maybe I’m not ready to accept that you aren’t real.

Perhaps, the mere notion that you’re out there, loving someone wholeheartedly with every inch of your being, is what keeps me going. Perhaps, if I keep looking for pieces of you hard enough, I might be able to follow a trail that leads me straight into your comforting arms.

See, it’s true that I’ve loved the idea of you ever since I began to comprehend what love could truly mean.

But I’m tired of loving an idea.

So I’ll follow the trail, leaving bits of my own heart behind, scattered like crumbs. For if I succeed, the path will have led me to my ultimate Utopia. And if I don’t, I can pick up the remaining pieces of myself and find my way back, broken – but with the definite confirmation that you aren’t real.

All I ask of you is this: please be real. TC mark

One story, told five ways…

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