And This? This is More

This . . .
This right here is more than more.
This is the most I have.
Right here.

I don’t believe it when people say they have a type. Or maybe this is just me. Maybe I should keep it this way and remain subjective.
But I believe.
More than anything, I believe in the fact that there is only one person who can steal your heart and never give it back.
I think that chemistry overrules the typical version of someone’s type. At the same time, I understand the ideas and the feelings that come with physical or sexual attraction.

I know all about intimate fantasies and the ideas that come when I associate myself with the feel of soft lips or the way my hands slide down her curvy hips.
I love these things.
I love the way her body feels next to me. But before I digress or let this turn sexual, let me turn this to something else.

I remember in my past and how I dated someone who told me that they were surprised they liked me.
They said they were surprised because I wasn’t their type.
They continued with an insult because I was not a white-collar man. I’m not a doctor or a lawyer nor did I have a high-priced education with degrees to line my office wall.
I was not a fashionable choice nor was I someone with a typical or simple background.
Yes. I have a story.
Yes. I have a history.
I suppose I have a look too because I am told this quite frequently. I am told that I appear to have a tough exterior, which perhaps I do.
At the same time, I laugh at this because I am soft and weak. I often see myself as sniveling or more like a cry-baby to which I grind my teeth with an internal disgust and think how I almost hate myself for being so weak.

I used to want to be tough.
I am not tough.
Not at all.

No, I do not have a commercialized way about me. I have an accent which is typical for a New Yorker.
I have never felt comfortable around parents or families — and in some ways, as long ago as the insult was about me not being her “type” so to speak; I still remember the insult of someone basically saying, “I’m surprised I’m attracted to you.”

I suppose my questions are gaining momentum here.
Are looks everything?
Is status everything?
Am I somehow faulty or ugly or unappealing?
These are not questions a man is supposed to ask.
Is status everything?
Am I still afraid of the rejections from my past? If this is so, when am I going to allow myself to let this go?
When will I choose to drop the weight of things that happened so long ago?

In fairness to myself and to the dating world, none of this is easy.
Dating is not easy.
Dating has never been comfortable to me, nor are the beginning stages of dating anything but awkward.
Or again, I understand that this can be subjective to me.

And so, I suppose if there is a type, then my type would be a person that removes the awkwardness and that somehow, everything between us evolves without hesitation.
I want this. I have no time for anything else.
I want my love to be without  hesitation.
There’s no dilemma in when to call or how long I should wait before I reach out after seeing her last.
I want my love to want to hear from me often and I want her to reach out to me just as much.
I want those silly conversations.
I want things to happen to me, and instantly, I have the need and the feelings to share this or tell my love, “You’ll never guess what just happened!”

This is what I want.
There’s no discomfort or insecurity. I suppose if I have a type, then my type is someone who I connect with.
I want the connection that comes with no worries, doubts, or concerns that perhaps I am the only one who thinks or feels this way.

I believe in chemistry.
Not types. . .
I believe in the other half theories that there is one person who somehow fits perfectly. And no one else can do this like them.

I acknowledge that I do have a preference. I love curves. I love legs. I love the thickness of holding a body and feeling it in my arms, as if to think, “Goddammit! She feels so good.”
However, and at this stage in the game, I think it is shallow to limit me or anyone else from experiencing the great possibility of something beautiful.

My love has a look.
I grant you this and my love is far more beautiful than the average. At the same time, my love is equally beautiful to the world.
I know she is.

I know what my love looks like.
I don’t care much about what my love looks like to anyone else because I know what she looks like to me.
I don’t care who sees her the way I do.
I don’t care to hear anyone’s input about me or my past or her and the way she is.

I care more about the chemistry that takes place when I see her. I swear, this is an incredible thing.
I care more about the feelings I have when I hear her voice or how body responds when she touches my hand.

Nothing matches this.

I want to laugh.
I want to make the memories that no one else can make (or take away).
I want to dance too, which is something that I have never done before.

This is not to say that I’ve never danced or that I have never danced with a girl before.
I enjoy music.
I enjoy the feeling of dancing up close next to the body of a woman, of course I do.
But this is different.
In fact, what I want is different.

What I want to do is more meaningful to me.
Perhaps what I want is something too childish at heart. Maybe the desires or the fantasies I have are silly.
Maybe this is unattractive at best.
Or maybe this is too vulnerable.
“Who would want someone like this?” is a common question I think about.
I know who.
And there’s only one person.
My love . . .

To hell with being afraid and to hell with the vulnerabilities.
I have lived too long not to experience certain rituals and experiences that would otherwise fill my soul and satisfy my heart.
I spent too many years behind a wall and too much time building walls instead of bridges.
I ran too far.
I hurt too many people.
I spent too much time investing in the wrong relationships and running away from the right ones.
This is what I call emotional bankruptcy, by the way.

How does this even make sense?
I ask this because why is it we often allow ourselves to invest in someone when, deep down, we know there’s something off or unfit.
We know we belong elsewhere, yet, we remain in the wrong places with the wrong people.
Why?
Why do we do this?
We know when we are in the wrong places yet, we try anyway.

I have lived long enough to hear others talk about how they tried to adapt and conform to appease someone else.
I suppose my type is someone that does not have to be changed nor do I have to change for them.

My type is a connection that meshes seamlessly and even more, my type is someone who I connect with effortlessly.

No one else can do this with me.

This is not to say this is an easy find.
Not at all.
No, there are literally billions of people in this world. And as for my position or opinion on what it means to have a soulmate — my position is clear.

My belief is strong and wholesome.

Yes, I do believe in soulmates.
I do believe that above all or anyone else in this world, there is one perfect counterpart. There is one person who can somehow fit the same as only one key fitting its proper lock or cylinder.

Other keys and locks may look alike,
but only one key fits her cylinder.

I believe in this as heartily as I believe in the rescue of daybreak and how the sunrise changes the sky into something beautiful or heartwarming.

Take now for example.
The outside weather is unkind to say the least. I can hear the wind blowing.
I can see the snowfall has taken over suburbia, which is where I am for the time being.
I say for the time being because one day, my view will change.
I can feel the draft through the window behind me.
I know the sky is gray and the wind is howling as it whips the snow all over the place.
Yet, there is a love I feel and a desire I have which keeps me warm.
My love lies where she is, sleeping, elsewhere in another room
For now . . . 

I am not with her at the moment or next to her. I am unable to claim her perfectly.
At least, not as of yet.
No, but I have traced the details of her body to commit them to my memory.
I have replayed the sound of her voice a thousand times to warm myself when the world is otherwise alone and cold.

I knew her long ago and I know her now—and while the terms of “now” can be interesting or although time is unraveling according to fate, I have to believe that she is for me.

I have to believe this because I do not want anyone else.
No one else makes me feel like she does.
I can’t want anyone else either because how can you want someone other than the one you dream of?
Anything else would be a case of “any port in the storm,” and I don’t want a port. I want to find her and make her my home.
If I have a type, then she is my type.
And no one else fits this spot. 

Everything about her, down to the color she chooses to paint her toenails or the giggles she has when we play around — I know that no one else can catch my heart like this.
I know what I want.
I know that time is going to have to reveal new tricks to me. And I know that I am trying and hoping to find a way to pull off my trick—but that’s my point.

My type is simple, beautiful, complex, and amazing because, to me, I know there is no one else.
There is no trick. Just chemistry.

Now—
If I go back to the rejections of my past or my past decisions to invest in love, then I have to realize that love can fail due to something which I call “contributory negligence.”
And yes, I have failed in the past.
I have hurt good people.
I say this with regret.
But this? This is more.

I want to be ready.
I want to be right.
I want to be clear that I am done with the past because the past has only proved me wrong, several times.

I don’t need to be right as much as I would rather be happy.
And, of course, the next question is will I ever be happy?
I hope so.
One day.

I believe that one day, my love will come and all else will evolve and perhaps we will dance the way I’ve always dreamed we would.

I will never settle or allow myself to entertain something that does not fit or seem right.

I will never allow myself to fall to the disloyalty of insecure thoughts that otherwise confuse or distract my focus.
This has been my problem before.
I know this.

What is my type?
God, how do I tell the world that I am in love with the most beautiful creation known to man?
How do I describe her?
How do I describe the feelings or the sadness I have when I am without her?
How do I explain the way my body responds or how my body changes when she kisses me.

No more tricks.
No more risks that make no sense.

My love is my soulmate—and while fate does not allow me to fall asleep and wake up to her every morning, I will hold steady.
I will never give up because nothing is more amazing than seeing the love of your life, first thing, when you wake up in the morning.

Lastly –

Some say that these things fade.
I disagree.
Real attraction never fades or goes away and true love is always true.
Love really does conquer all, so long as it’s nurtured.

I understand this now.
Love is a living and breathing thing and like anything that lives and breathes, love can die too, if not taken care of or fed properly.

I don’t want this to die.
Nor do I want to die alone.

I want to feel the flesh that drives me crazy. I want to touch the skin that starts my engine and when I have this, I will rest in the arms of my love, for life or longer.

I know it’s just a matter of time.
I know this.
It’s just . . .
I often wish that time would move faster.

Then again, if time sped up and I was granted this like a wish, would I appreciate this as much as I will when she comes to me as she should?

I suppose, only time will tell.

I hope.