Where Is He

I wrote this some time ago, and I just read it again today. I don't know how I feel about it anymore. It makes me happy, and sad, both at the same time. I don't know if this is what I want anymore. But it was a lovely dream all the same.

Where is he, I ask you?

Eighteen years have gone and he should've come by now.

Perhaps if I describe him to you, you will know who I mean. Perhaps you will have seen him wandering the street, eating a bagel on the subway, strolling through Boston Commons, undoubtedly looking lost.

Well, first of all, he looks inexplicably like Darren Criss. He likes to wear sweaters and fitted jeans and yes, scarves in the winter. Sometimes, when he's reading, he wears glasses.

He takes me to Feist concerts and likes it when I wear lace and he sings Jack Johnson to me while I try to fall asleep.

Sometimes I wake up to see him sleeping in my chair and I touch the stubble on his chin; he grabs my hand and holds it there. He reads to me too, poetry, the fruit of love, out of the large volumes I keep mostly unopened in my makeshift crate bookshelves.

He is soft and strong simultaneously, which seems like an impossibility, but it's not. Not for him.

He knows when I'm lying and he calls me out.

But he's gentle.

He reaches into my hurting parts and draws them out.

He has discernment

But he never judges me

Because he loves me.

I don't think he exists. But I'll love him all the same, and I won't settle for anything other than him.

If you find him, tell him I'm still here. Waiting. Waiting for him to complete me.