I Still Dream About Being Wrapped In Your Arms

I crave love and I long for it. I seek the knowledge of what it’s like to love and be loved, to feel something so deep within, an emotion so powerful throbbing uncontrollably in the depths of a heart, to sense a fire burning inside and watch it crackle.

I have an image of myself wrapped in the arms of my lover.

I imagine him, his insides, his soul and his mind. I imagine him soft and kind yet strong and firm. I imagine myself telling him about small things like my favorite poet or my favorite photographer, trusting him and telling him about my past, telling him about my favorite book knowing he’ll read it and I imagine myself wrapped in his strong arms.

I picture him as someone who’ll become passionate about the same things as me, as someone who’ll go the distance for me, as someone who’ll comfort me when I’m at my worst, as someone supportive and encouraging, as my comfort-zone and I picture myself wrapped in his warm arms.

I think of someone who’ll put up with my crap and mood swings, who’ll act childish with me, who’ll laugh at my silly jokes, who’ll pick the most enchanting flower for me, who’ll tell me I’m the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, who’ll get excited for me, who’ll want to take it slow, who’ll be vulnerable with me, who’ll want to know me, who’ll memorize the scars on my body and love them and I think of myself wrapped in his loving arms.

I can see myself loving him with all my being, making him a part of my day and the center of my universe, bragging about him to my friends, buying him his favorite chocolate, befriending his sister and meeting his mom and playing with his dog, thinking about him when I’m bored in class, counting the hours to see him, experiencing new things with him, tasting lust with him, constantly improving since I’ve met him, getting shinier brighter and bubblier, being comfortable when we’re dead silent on the phone, knowing his face expressions by heart and kissing every inch of his soul and I can see myself wrapped in his home-like arms.

But I can’t tell. I can’t tell a soul because I’m too dependent silly and naïve, because that’s the love we see on the screens, the unrealistic overrated one, the one I learned from that toxic boy I once knew and I can’t help but want it.

That’s why I can’t stop myself from supposing he’ll walk away, tearing my heart out on his path, destroying me, leaving me empty inside because I gave him all my love and left nothing for myself. I suppose I’ll go back to my old habits, the self-destructive ones, sleeping with douche bags who treat me like shit, relapsing into my eating disorder, hating myself because I’m never enough, and isn’t that why he left?

So I’ll just go back to my fantasies, to my personalized reality, to a time where he is still mine, to seeing myself wrapped in the arms of my ex-lover