Daggered Smiles

I’m involved with a man who brings more tension than serenity. Like a giant bomb annoyingly and loudly ticking inside of me—and not the kind that ends in ecstasy.  

This man loves my breasts and my perfect complexion. I would say that equally shallow factors bind me to him as well. He is nothing more than a man who enters, because that’s all I want him to be. 

My soul, unlike my body, is uninhabited by his person. There is no connection—no real dynamic, just the “heat of a luxurious bed”. It is this Shakespeare which contributes to his demise…this ridiculous man and that sweet Bard mean nothing to each other.

But, I wonder--must a companion know the great Scottish play or espy duplicity in the winter’s Tale to win me over? Must he master Dickinsonian metaphors and Yeatsian lyricism? Could he tell Plath from Sexton? Well, that last one might not be fair. I couldn’t even do that…which begs the question…where do I draw the line? 

Are my expectations of a romantic partner fairly defined? Is this fair? I can’t answer it, but I know that I find him incredibly boring, and would probably continue to do so had he known the Coleridge I quoted. So, I’m left with excuses…to talk myself out of the fact that I don't like him on the fundamental level of his person. But I want to fuck him anyway. Is that OK?