Repost:
Dear Future Husband,
I won’t ask where you are or what you’ve been doing, because your answer would be the same as mine. Preparing. Preparing your experiences, your stories, your quirks and flaws, to fall neatly in place with mine to make something beautiful.
Dear Future Husband,
I see you. Nameless, faceless yet, but I see you everywhere. At a beautiful sight or in funny coincidences, as I pull out my phone and can’t think if someone to share it with, I see you. In moments of grief and tribulation, I hear your voice. I smell you like comfort, and taste you like desire. Isn’t it odd, how familiar I am with your effect on me, while not knowing your name? But it’s okay. You’re hard to find because you’re one in a million and I wouldn’t expect or want any less of a challenge. But I hope you are just as excited to introduce yourself to me.
Dear Future Husband,
I’ll be waiting for you. Not waiting, in the sense that I’ll be marking dates off my calendar, or keeping my arms wide open in case you decide to come running into them. But waiting, in the sense that the idea of ‘us’ will always be present in the back of my mind. Waiting, in the way that we don’t necessarily expect it to, but know it’s possible that the rain will stop, that pain will stop. Waiting, because I choose to believe in ‘when’s over ‘if’s, when talking about an ‘us’. Waiting, because ‘when’ you tell me “I’m ready,” I won’t say “Me, too.” I’ll be waiting, waiting to tell you “Welcome, finally, I’ve missed you very much.”
Dear Future Husband,
I have been bruised, burned, abused. I have been told I am worthless and weak, and have felt hands on my face that were far less than gentle. I share this with you for two reasons: one, as an advance apology if I am unintentionally clumsy with your love. I have been shot with bullets of hate and contempt while being told “this is love,” so if I still flinch when you reach to graze the hair out of my face- it’s not you, it’s the gunshot residue. Two. I know you’ve been hurt before, too. I pray not in the way or amount that I’ve been, but a simple and inevitable fact of life and love is this- shit happens, people hurt. But when you share with me stories of the women who thought they could rent my title for a short while, I will hold my bitter, jealous tongue. And instead, I will thank them. I will be grateful for the ways you’ve learned NOT to love, and be loved. The same way, I hope that you can appreciate the men in my past for allowing me to appreciate you to the fullest. Everything they weren’t, everything I deserve. But above all, I hope you do with our past the best thing anyone can do with it- keep it there.
Notice now neither of those two reasons mention healing me. This is because, if I was ready to meet you, I would have already healed myself. I’m not asking for your arms to rip your shirt open to reveal a giant “S” on your chest, but for them to wrap around me with a whisper, “I’m here now.”
But right now, you are not here. You are there, wherever “there” is. But wherever, whatever, whomever, I hope that our “when”ever is not too far, because, my dear future husband,
I’m dying to meet you.
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