Expectation vs Reality

The first time I met him, 
it was in a bus, heading towards San Fernando.
He was wearing a black jacket, 
and taking photos of his wristwatch.
I told myself, maybe, he wanted to remember the time we met
so he could tell his friends, 
this is the exact time and place
I met her.
Turns out he was flat broke 
and he needed to sell his watch.

The first time I met him,
we were going against the current
of swaying bodies.
It was dark,
the music was deafening,
but we looked at each other in the eye
and connected -
oh, it was just like in the movies
where you both stop and stare,
taking stock of each other,
leaving each other breathless.
We were suspended in that dreamy state
until his girlfriend tapped him on the shoulder saying,
"Honey, it's time to go." The first time I met him
was in a bookshop.
It felt like we've known each other forever.
I wondered if his reading pile would fall in love with mine.
I wondered if he would, one day, quote poetry to me.
My head did a 360 spin,
imagining the marriage of our book collections. 
Imagining worry free nights spent sipping wine and reading and talking and laughing and fucking.
He was gone by the time I got out of my stupor.
I never saw him again.
I regret not asking for his name.

I wrapped myself in several layers of expectations vs reality,
a little game I like to play
that, I admit, sometimes leaves me confounded,
confusing reality and fantasy.
It's a mild form of crack cocaine,
that much I am aware of,
a bad habit I couldn't shake
because sometimes, 
the disappointment is worth the escape.

But my shrink, when I was 13, told me
that any way I made myself bleed 
was a form of self-mutilation.
And that he didn't know what was worse,
that I liked to choke myself with my tears,
thinking how heavenly it feels to breathe
after you gasp for air 
or that I chose wounds that would not cut my wrists
or show up on my face
because I am as twisted
as my favorite brand of self harm.
34 likes
  • iseenessieExpectation vs Reality

    The first time I met him,
    it was in a bus, heading towards San Fernando.
    He was wearing a black jacket,
    and taking photos of his wristwatch.
    I told myself, maybe, he wanted to remember the time we met
    so he could tell his friends,
    this is the exact time and place
    I met her.
    Turns out he was flat broke
    and he needed to sell his watch.

    The first time I met him,
    we were going against the current
    of swaying bodies.
    It was dark,
    the music was deafening,
    but we looked at each other in the eye
    and connected -
    oh, it was just like in the movies
    where you both stop and stare,
    taking stock of each other,
    leaving each other breathless.
    We were suspended in that dreamy state
    until his girlfriend tapped him on the shoulder saying,
    "Honey, it's time to go." The first time I met him
    was in a bookshop.
    It felt like we've known each other forever.
    I wondered if his reading pile would fall in love with mine.
    I wondered if he would, one day, quote poetry to me.
    My head did a 360 spin,
    imagining the marriage of our book collections.
    Imagining worry free nights spent sipping wine and reading and talking and laughing and fucking.
    He was gone by the time I got out of my stupor.
    I never saw him again.
    I regret not asking for his name.

    I wrapped myself in several layers of expectations vs reality,
    a little game I like to play
    that, I admit, sometimes leaves me confounded,
    confusing reality and fantasy.
    It's a mild form of crack cocaine,
    that much I am aware of,
    a bad habit I couldn't shake
    because sometimes,
    the disappointment is worth the escape.

    But my shrink, when I was 13, told me
    that any way I made myself bleed
    was a form of self-mutilation.
    And that he didn't know what was worse,
    that I liked to choke myself with my tears,
    thinking how heavenly it feels to breathe
    after you gasp for air
    or that I chose wounds that would not cut my wrists
    or show up on my face
    because I am as twisted
    as my favorite brand of self harm.

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