Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy...
Can you miss something you've never had? You see, I've never been in a "relationship," period. It's, therefore, a mystery, in some degree, the feelings one has, when he first realizes he's in love; when he wants to commit; when, after many years sharing a life with his beloved, he can sit in silence, together, in perfection and imperfection, complete and whole, comfortable, familiar, cozy ... in love. Granted, I've idealize the concept of being in a relationship, but I've never denied the ugly, as most people would say, that comes with commitment. Yet I'm a helpless soul: I have to romanticize the good and the bad... to think how wonderful it would be for your heart and mind to say, "I am yours, you are mine. You will matter to me as I, to you; your life will have a meaning through me as mine, through you."
Foolishness? Perhaps, yes.
My insecurity, of which its etiology and pathology are evident as a blue lagoon is clear, paralyzes me, prevents any real action from my part... and most nights I find myself in a dark room, pathetic and sad, alone.Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy...
Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in
Fuck, I sound like a broken record.
Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who's winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl:
No, I'm not that boy.
Whoever you are... You were so vivid, you were so real. Yes, I dreamed about you. Not about the sweeping broadstrokes of romance and passion we'd share: no, there wasn't a gondola ride in Venice; there wasn't a sweaty romp in a gold gilded four poster bed. Yes, I dreamed about you. It was in a simple kiss goodbye as we each took off to work; it was in a rainy Sunday morning spent lazily in bed reading the New York Times and sipping coffee. It was in a pile of tissues I've collected: see, you had caught a cold, which made you blow your ever reddening, a faucet of a nose, but you were a tissue using machine and you wouldn't stay put, so naturally there were trails and piles of tissues here and there, which of course I had to pick up after, making even my temperature rise somewhat. It was also in a hug: I was chopping an onion with tears running down my cheek; you've heard me sniffle, and not knowing what I was doing, you were naturally concerned; your instinct was to rush over to where I was and give me the most comforting hug only you know how to give, and you whispered in my ear, "what's wrong?" rocking me, soothing me. It was in the fine prints where I found you. Whoever you are...
Whoever you are... You were so vivid, you were so real. Yes, I dreamed about you. Not about the sweeping broadstrokes of romance and passion we'd share: no, there wasn't a gondola ride in Venice; there wasn't a sweaty romp in a gold gilded four poster bed. Yes, I dreamed about you. It was in a simple kiss goodbye as we each took off to work; it was in a rainy Sunday morning spent lazily in bed reading the New York Times and sipping coffee. It was in a pile of tissues I've collected: see, you had caught a cold, which made you blow your ever reddening, a faucet of a nose, but you were a tissue using machine and you wouldn't stay put, so naturally there were trails and piles of tissues here and there, which of course I had to pick up after, making even my temperature rise somewhat. It was also in a hug: I was chopping an onion with tears running down my cheek; you've heard me sniffle, and not knowing what I was doing, you were naturally concerned; your instinct was to rush over to where I was and give me the most comforting hug only you know how to give, and you whispered in my ear, "what's wrong?" rocking me, soothing me. It was in the fine prints where I found you. Whoever you are...
Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl:
(The lyric is from Wicked: I'm Not That Girl.)
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