Why I want to see you....
Bon Iver is crooning to me, and I am overcome with melancholy and restlessness. I should do a workout video, or go howl at the moon to get this itchy need outside of my body, but instead I sit playin' DrawSomething on my phone and thinking of my XGF.
We've been facebookin', arranging to meet up after a business trip to a nearby city that E. and I are making on Fri/Sat. For us to find her amongst the buildings and racing cars and settle our bodies somewhere, collectively for the first time in months. To see her face, trace the familiar lines of her eyes with mine (although she won't look into mine - never has been able to, really - I intimidate her and she loved me. Bad combo.) Hundreds of thousands of words hanging in the air between us, ready to be snatched out by our lungs and given to each other in our next breath. Scared. Anxious. She fb's me and states her curiousity over why we want to see her.
Why do I want to see you, raven haired lover of mine? Why? After so many months of total agony, of being pushed beyond the limits that I knew were in my heart, elastic band about to snap and make me bleed. After E. has worked so hard to tear you out of his heart like a plantar wart rooted deep in a heel - a part of him, but foreign just the same. Here we all are, moving on with our lives. Busy with school, with work, with buying a cabin and organizing and making this world more tangible for each of us.
Because of time. Because of investment. Because of love. We have invested so much time, love and energy into each other, and when it went sideways we panicked - each in our own way, scrambling back into the darkness that we came out of, trying to claw our way past each other into a safer space where we could hear the beating of our individual hearts again. Into the quiet of loneliness and solitude, of breaking hearts and routines. But I gave you everything that I had, and saw all goodness inside of you - thousands of dollars, breaths, moments all passed in the river of our story underneath our shakin' feet.
So here I am wondering. Wondering if "done" means "over" or if it was just a cry for separation for awhile to get clear. To get clear about maybe coming back into each other's lives.
This ain't no highschool romance, no matter how much it smacks of drama and shitty boundaries. It's a love affair that is rare and golden in its simplicity, before everything got so fucked up. The unbelievable sex, the cadence of all that we did together. And so, I want to revisit. Want to sit in the same room, and see what is there with us. Will it be regret? Relief that we ended things? Lust? Sadness? Friendship? I have no idea.
but I want to sit with you. Sit next to you and find out. Sit next to you & E and feel my chest to see what's there. Don't want to have a memory of the last time I saw you being shattering words tossed around like breakin' glass in a lonely bar with saggin' couches. Not when there was so much beauty, Egyptian Cotton sheets and champagne, your first multiple orgasms, the way I cried when I watched the beauty of the two of you making love in that crisp hotel room where we shocked that woman in the morning after my husband ordered us coffee and you waited for me in bed naked as I ushered her and the tray into the room. The way we all held hands walking down the boulevard laughing, clear blue water of my childhood haunts lapping at the sand in the background. The creases around your eyes when you laughed at my surprise when you offered to drop me off and pick me up from a concert, taking me home to crawl into E's warmth and our cackles as we pseudo-assaulted him. You showing me your place, shy and quiet inside, your beautiful blanket from your Chief on the wall, eagle feather proud and elegant above your bathroom door. How my sister loved you, my parents embraced you into their home, knowing full well who you were with their hippie roots and quiet love for me. The crystal decanter glittering on its silver tray with rare scotch that I kept full for you, bought for you, brought across the border for you, wrapped for you. Nights of watching you serve; lingerie and snacks and art and brunches and a thousand kisses rolled into each glance.
I want to see you because no matter how fucked up things got, there is a part of us that will never be apart. I want to honour that inside of each of us. And see. And see what we all see.
Loving and losing in life means that I'm prepared. Prepared for nothing to be there but anger, disappointment, sadness, resentment or any other chex mix of fucked up feelings, spicy and crunchy in their differences and pairings. I'm prepared for the love to blast through us like ice, and leave us numb with wanting. I'm prepared to hate you for all of the pain that you brought into my life, for to hate you for throwing me away again in a moment in a bar with saggy couches.... again. I'm prepared to cry. To talk. To fight. I'm prepared for you to come back to our hotel room and fuck us and yell at us and get drunk and leave in the middle of the night. Life teaches me time and time again that no matter what you expect, or work yourself up for, it will unfold in ways you never imagined. And so I prepared for surprise or same with the same clear heart.
All I know is that I want to see you.