I want a man who is good with his hands. One who knows how to make a clean mortise and tenon joint.
I want a man who isn’t afraid to get dirt under his nails. Not like Tony Soprano, but like the women who bust into a motel room on the highway to extract children in trouble.
I want a man who isn’t afraid of his heart, and of falling to his knees on the solid rock of mother earth in the Canadian Shield.
There is a way to fashion the things we’ve learned into false armour around our skin, and I want a man who knows this but never fully felt safe within those structures.
I want a man who has fallen on his face and doesn’t flinch when I cup his chin in my hands, kiss his eyelids.
Or, if he’s still bleeding, I want a man who chooses to flinch openly and to trust me to hear him, trust that in his fearful moments I would never purposefully hurt him.
Even if it’s terrifying and takes a few tries.
I want a man who can lift me off the cross when I climb back up there, knowing it’s habit and not my conscious choice anymore.
Knowing that when I sleepwalk up there, I need help getting down and am sometimes too afraid to ask.
I want someone who chooses real above all else on this plane of dualities, this half-hell, this dreaded desert that never becomes green when we walk alone.
Someone who can help me care for my soul.
And there’s a part of me some days that feels I deserve this. This miracle just for me. But that part is too easily crushed when I think I’ve recognized one who can, one who wants to, only to find out it wasn’t real.
Seems that the real ones only come around when I’m crushed. Pinned. In distress – having answered the call to rescue, not having any idea that it terrifies me, or why.
But maybe the real ones have also come on the bad days, and were only able to see the back of me as I tested the pillar.
I can’t know. I can only choose to trust that my expectations and my desires have not been completely marred by the fairytales with true love endings.