I’ve been waiting for you for quite some time now,
spent long nights thinking of you, wanting you,
waiting for you to be ready for me,
dreaming of taking you home.
It seems like you wanted to be with everyone
but me before you ever wanted to be with me.
I watched each of my friends find you,
hold you, carry you in their arms.
They took you into their bedrooms, and they unclothed
you; took apart each of the layers you hid behind
and marveled at you on their beds before ever
deciding to play with you– savoring you.
When it was my turn, the web browser crashed like
last call, like missed shots, like thinking of what
could have been. I had my credit card ready
to do whatever you needed me to do.
I heard about the fun you all had together, and I confess,
I was jealous. Each story was a reminder that I
simply could not have you. It was not time.
And that only made me want you more.
When you finally decided to show up at my doorstep,
when you finally made your way to our very own
meetcute, I didn’t know what to do first.
I watched you carefully.
You were tall and sleeker than I had imagined, some
alien creature, some futuristic amalgamation of
everyone who came before you. You hummed,
and showed off all your colors.
That first night, it was spectacular. All of the waiting,
the wanting, the dreaming, and coveting, it felt
so good to finally spend time with you.
To get to know you better.
All of your parts felt so good in my hands. Your
stick fit like it was made just for me to hold,
your girth the perfect size for the space
that I had carved out just for you.
And now, now I have you. You’re here, and
you’re not that different from the others.
You look different, and you act different,
but you function just the same.
Sure, you’re nice to look at, but where is your ambition?
Where is your purpose? You do everything everyone
before you did, and there’s hardly anything unique
about you. You don’t take me anywhere new.
I thought that we’d go on grand adventures together,
but you keep saying, “Maybe next month,” and then
next month turns into next year, delay after delay,
I am waiting for something that will never come.
You were late to find me, and when you did, you
brought nothing to the table. You seem to pride
yourself on taking up space and looking nice,
and honestly, I’m disappointed in you.
Maybe it’s not the right time for us. Maybe it just
wasn’t meant to be. Maybe you’ll get better
with age. Maybe it’s me. I just don’t think
we’re a very good fit, and I’m sorry.
Sara Watkins is an editor, author, and collector of tiny, fat dragons. She has been published in Pennsylvania’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Fiction, Pennsylvania’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Nonfiction, and Blink Ink. Sara Watkins can be reached via www.sarawatkins.net or @saranadebooks.