My love. My Hope. My Life. My expectation lives in you. Perhaps I simply expect too much from such an imperfect being. My every thought is you. Every wish. Every desire deep in the most secret parts of me. There is you.

I so desperately want to believe in our utopia. Believing that the promises you breathe into me will fill my lungs, expand my chest, and give my body what it needs to make it through this anguished reality. Perhaps I am just wishing for too much.

Maybe I am laying myself too wide open.

When I expect you to know that I love when you run your fingertips up my leg while you speed up the highway. Or that I love when you bite my lower lip when you greet me after a day’s work. Or that I love when you hold me around the waist while you tell me about your day. Or that I love the way you ogle me when I wear my leopard underwear. That when you hold me when I cry, it eases my anxiety. My fears. The crippling depression. When I expect you to know these things when I never utter the words, perhaps I am wrong.

When we lay alone, as man and wife do, perhaps I am too unforgiving when it is unclear what I want. And how I want it. You cannot read my convoluted mind. I so eagerly wish you could.

Perhaps the standard I am holding you to, one that only two others have met and exceeded, is just too much for you to bear. Your best is simply not good enough for me. Please excuse my cockiness. I do not mean to be boastful. I am just stating observations.

Perhaps I am just foolish for expecting my needs to be met. For hoping that my lips will never have to move. You will just read my heart and know. My silence will pierce into your soul and you will hear everything that I will never say.

Perhaps my expectation should no longer be from you. Perhaps I am not digging deep enough. Perhaps I should no longer submit. Perhaps my expectation should originate closer to home. Perhaps my expectation and my hope, everything I live for and work towards. Perhaps all of those things should begin in me. We shall see.