Sometimes I close my eyes and envision your ideal woman.

She’s strong, confident, independent.

She doesn’t stammer over words when excited.

She takes time with her appearance.

You’ll never catch her slippin’, at anything.

Big boobs, round behind, makeup on point always.

I know you’d be proud to have a woman on your arm like that.

So why are you with me?

Sometimes I close my eyes,

Still shook by the idea that you want me.

Amazed that it’s my affections you’re pursuing.

I can’t lie.

Sometimes I close my eyes and pray my ideal for you and I never meet.

Afraid my insecurities and blemishes will rise to the surface

Revealing the things I already know.

Sorry, ignore my quiet musings.

Sometimes my subconscious gets the better of me.

I suppose underneath it all there’s this fear that I’ll open my eyes and realize this was all a dream.

As fictional as any story I’ve ever penned.

I suppose when these doubts come I should reassert this fact.

This woman isn’t real.

She’s a collection of bits and pieces of traits I admire without all the junk,

Without all the flaws.

The reality is, she’s an illusion.

But I’m not and neither is the relationship we share.

It is real, it is tangible,

And that’s facts.

Forlorn

Viable

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