To the man of my dreams

Do you know how much I hate you?

I hate that you turn up every night right after I’ve decided I don’t need romance. Every single night when I’ve rejected my vulnerability in reality, you throw me a curve ball of sweet, honey-coated love in my dreams. And I hate you for that.

Do you know how much pain you’ve cost me? You’ve drilled in such ridiculous notions of what romance is in my Mind. It’s hard enough recognising emotional pornography when it’s hidden under blankets of ‘happy endings’ piled up high by the media, it’s harder when my own brain gives its own tick of approval. Every heart ache is due to the fact that my own brain can’t discern right from wrong, a lost cause from Not Enough Effort. And it’s all because you exist, dream guy.

When you put your arms around me, pull me into an embrace, interlock our fingers, land a soft kiss upon my lips, stare into my eyes and show me how one can smile without ever moving one’s mouth, you mess with my mind. You make me feel things I can’t ever feel in reality. I don’t feel the drop in my stomach, the warmth spreading from my chest to my toes, the tingling of my soles. Instead, I get a phantom of all these sensations, I dream I’m in love, I imagine I am contented and blissful. You create a phantom love in the deepest recesses of my mind that I know will fade with the morning sun’s arrival just a split second later. And I hate you for that.

I hate how you give me false hope. How you make me feel like I’m not worthy of love in real life. How it is all but a dream, and will never come to pass. How I’m not worth love when I’m awake and living, to the extent my brain has to create fanfictions to indulge in some semblance of love. I especially hate that I actually start to fall for you, and then it’s all snatched away from me when I drift out of sleep. 

Your touch is so soft, so gentle. Yet I can feel the heat from your palm transferring onto mine. I can feel the broadness of your chest as I lean back onto you. The warmth of your breath as you whisper into my ear. The feather-soft touch of your lips. The pleasant feeling of safety when I’m with you. The tenderness in your eyes. The comforting, low tones of your voice. 

Worst of all is when you resemble the men that have been in my life. Because then, man in my dreams, you become a mocking personification of what could have happened, a cutting reminder of my failure to keep that guy in my life, the icy-cold splash of reality, that I wasn’t worth enough in their eyes to try and make things work. That I’m only worth a month of their time and effort, at most.

That’s why I hate you so much. Because every night you appear, you give me a glimpse of what love could be like. And when I wake, you show me why I can only dream of such love, because in reality, it doesn’t exist. At least not now. And the waiting kills me bit by bit everyday, because you aren’t real and even if I meet the Right One, he will never be you. I will never get you, my perfect dream guy. Because that’s what you are: A dream.


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