I was carved with a fatal flaw.
A Dreamer's Sin.
Where I feel guilty, because I'm always disappointed when reality pales in comparison to the vivid colors of dreams.

Sometimes I find myself liking the idea of things than the actual things themselves.
I like the idea of wine from foreign places,
And friendships found in spaces you'd least expect,
And love, the stuff poets write about...
But in reality these things aren't what I thought they'd be.
This is my epiphany.
That maybe, I might like the idea of you.
But not you yourself...
Is it a sin?
It's a sin isn't it.
To love the ideas more than the person.

— this is not poetry, it's just a realization that stemmed from a memory.

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A/N
I'm pretty sure all I do is pine over this guy.
The memory was when he had asked me if I had like this Italian wine (and wine in general) and I had replied that sometimes I liked the idea of things more than the things themselves.
Which I do.
•••