I Wish I Could Dream Like Dr. King

Sigh. [This was more exasperated sigh than anything else]
[Followed by the inevitable] What the fuck is wrong with me?

THE PROBLEM:
I like a boy, who likes me. We've never met, but have communicated extensively online and through the marvellous Skype app that allows people to make free phone calls all over the world... apparently. I haven't sussed it out thoroughly yet. Since Toulouse and Ghana were effectively downsized, I don't think I'll be using it all that much. And since this new boy is the only person on my contact list thus far, and he has a local area code, I doubly doubt I'll be using it much. I do appreciate the introduction, though.

Oh, and he's got a nice voice. I mean... niiice.

Back to the problem...
I'm the kind of person who looks for meaning in her life in all the contacts she makes. This includes, but is not limited to, grocery store clerks in the check out line, bartenders, chefs, people hanging out in bars, someone stooping to pick up their dog's shit, or worse, not picking it up, people running their engines, people that call, people online. So... anyone really.

So I meet this guy, or rather he sends me one of those patented Interest Indicators online and I read his profile and he sounds... well... great. Smart, funny... not hideous. I return Interest Indicator. We begin to have a dialogue. And it's good.

He says things like:
"Your profile is rife with conversation starters. All these doors, which one to go in? I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Testing.... If I don't get to hear from you, I will definitely be sending an email. Your profile was a well crafted piece of art." Okay, so now my attention is grabbed. A) He's not stupid B) "...well crafted piece of art"

So then I say:
"Stop it or I'll fall in love with you... Alice.

Dialogue continues with him trying to dazzle me with his gorgeous brain, which is effective and taking hold.
Then he says this:
"So here's the deal, we go out once some time, we have fun, we do it again. If we don't then I write a wistful poem and drink a bottle of merlot screaming your name. I then throw the empty bottle into the lake, pee on the rocks, and fall asleep on a park bench."

At which point I think he's perfect.

Later he is trying to loosely quote Pink Floyd:
"All ships looking for a harbour," he writes. I ask if I'm the harbour in this context. Things I feel are going well. I'm feeling rather coquettish and a bit brazen and terribly taken in a potentially romantic moment. He says we're both ships looking for something to keep us warm at night. Tiny bit crushed. I say I'd rather be the harbour; that ships feel lost. No navigation. I don't... feel lost, that is. And the moon affects my tide, so I'm spreading all over the place. He says the harbour is a metaphor for the repository of our dreams. What are mine?

What are mine?

I told him "dreams morph.
Dreams get get quashed.
Eventually she stopped wishing". And a tear fell as I wrote that.

I want so much to make this connection with this man that has shown me the most beauty I've seen in a very long time. The length is an eight year span, where the greatest beauty I'd ever been shown was with my now current ex-husband when we first met.

Dreams morph. Dreams get quashed. Eventually she stopped wishing...