Love Addict: Closure…again
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I see. I notice. Sprawled out. Eyes closing lazily. Dreamily.
I know it means something, that my little one* climbed up on someone else’s* leg, paws falling to either side, not moving. That my little one* was more at ease with someone else than I’ve probably ever seen his furry self. That when he* was here earlier, my little one came out slowly, cautiously, tip-toed to sniff him with a look in his eyes of momentary memory – no sense of danger, but maybe weariness.
It surprised me that I felt so damn sad, that I wanted to cry so much as he and I hiked. Overwhelming, really. I didn’t even try and stop myself, though I didn’t want him to see, exactly. The tears started to spill as I walked in front of him, realizing that for fuck’s sake he has a wife that he will be with for the rest of his life and that he and I will never ever be and for fuck’s sake, I’ve always known this and it was okay until I became a part of the outskirts of his life, not in the inner circle anymore and never to be again. And the tears came for more reasons, for not being so undeniably attracted to him anymore, for not having that same spark, for dealing with the loss of connection to him. The whole point is to move on, to close, and yet I wept over losing that which I no longer wanted to feel.
He said, “I’m not sure it’ll ever go away. I think some attraction will always be there.”
I disagree. In my head, not to his face. There’s less already, and my mind flashes to those I was once so attracted to that I eventually looked at and thought, “really? how did I ever…?” Maybe it won’t be that with him, but the draw will ease. I’ll crave the real him less, and the memory of him more. That’s what I do.
I know it’s not as strong for him anymore, either. I can feel it. Maybe part of him also still longs to feel the overwhelm, that aliveness that we experienced when romantically-entwined. There’s nothing else like the adrenaline-infused sugar of initial lust running through the veins, pushing the highs. I can’t imagine a drug that could take its place.
As we made our way up the mountain, I spoke of my struggle around someone else, how it’s so hard for me to just be in a place of accepting love, that there always seems to be something which I don’t want. But is it real, or is it self-sabotage? Do I choose to find something wrong, ridiculous things like large toes bent too much to the left, shoulders hunched a bit too far, tufts of hair that run along the upper back? Or are they an indication of something larger, something that can’t be shown so it surfaces under the illusion of shallowness?
The tears wouldn’t stay back as he and I looked out over the mountains. “I just feel disconnected from you,” is the only thing I know to say. What I’m really feeling is a mixture of jealousy, worry, distance, longing, wonder. I can’t remember feeling this choked up around him before, even when we were breaking up. But then I guess I still had the underlying comfort of his love. And, maybe more importantly, I knew I loved him. Now, I wasn’t sure.
After I dropped him off, I wanted to crawl into that little hole in the back room, covering myself in a haze of pot and chocolate and despair, even though my body didn’t ask for it. I knew I couldn’t smile at the party that night, acting as if my heart wasn’t confused and shattered, again. I needed to be alone, but knew that might hurt someone else. ‘Maybe someone else can just come over for a little while,’ I thought. ‘Maybe I won’t have to deal with someone else wanting to kiss, when I just want to think about how I used to want to kiss him.’
Did I want to kiss anyone anymore?
Someone else came over, and my little one crawled into someone else’s lap. Someone else put his hand on my shoulder as I asked, “Can I talk to you about how I’m sad about him?” without looking into someone else’s eyes. And someone else answered, “I’m here for you to talk to me.” And so I did. I told someone else how I missed the soul connection, the way he lifted me up, how the way I was now outside and he was now outside made the soft area behind my forehead hurt.
And someone else put me to bed, rubbing my head and hair gently as he used to. For a moment, I’m not sure who is in the dark next to me – is it him a year ago, or is it someone else? Am I transferring a reality, an energy exchange that will bind me to someone else’s blue eyes instead of his, to someone else’s darkened fingernails from the paint which covers the canvasses, to someone else’s feet warming mine, to someone else’s cock in my mouth and between my legs? But in the dark, it’s hard to tell; the haze could mean anything, could be anyone. So I close my eyes and dream of an answer.