I want a life of never holding anything back.
I love the idea of one person. One person who digs so deep inside of you that its terrifying all the things that they unearth. Who makes conversation flow so easily from your lips, who understands you, supports you, makes you laugh, knows the exact way your body needs to be touched and knows just when to do it. One person who would retrieve all the fucking stars out of the sky for you if you asked, but you’d never need them to, because everything that they are is already so much more than enough for you.
I love the idea of one person. But I’ve become so jaded, so bitter, so reluctant, that I’m not looking for one person. I’ve learned to smile and shadow, give what I get, accept what I receive. I can only take people as they are, and only hand over the parts of me that they deserve. Slowly, and steadily. None of us owe anything to another. Don’t offer me the world because I have my own. And you’ll only fall short, like all the others. Renege on your promises, forget all your words. And I won’t only accept it; I’ll expect it.
So yes, I love the idea of one person. Yet try as I might, mixing and matching is not a shortcut to arrive there. There’s no puzzle to assemble. No copy and paste and print screen to completion. It’s discouraging and draining and unfair to some. But until he comes along, all determination and steady hand, and grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me so vigorously that every hesitation disintegrates and every wall comes crashing down, it’s all that I’ve got.
I could fill pages about how good it feels to fall asleep against your neck.
If your eyes lingered on any part of me for even a second, I’d feel it. They never do. I guess congratulations are in order. Your self-control runs circles around mine.
Remember that time you asked me if I was friend-zoning you?
I remember laughing so hard at the absurdity of the question, the situation, and the dilation of your pupils..
She stood not twenty feet from us, completely oblivious.
No doubt pondering the fact that less than 48 hours before, you were hers.
She missed the entire exchange, how close I leaned in to shout truth in your ear, the way you smiled at me with fingers lingering on my side.
Karma is tables turned with heightened observance.
Seeing a little more than everything and having no right to utter a word.
Karma is not understanding why she couldn’t fucking let go, when months after the fact, I’m still trying not to hold onto anything.
I realize that in my disbelief, my reply never actually reached your inquiry, so here it is:
Not even once, but maybe I should have.
I am flabbergasted at the idea that you really thought I’d be willing to be with you. I’ve never felt so much disbelief looking into someone’s eyes. You really honestly thought that I would jump at the chance to be yours, even after everything. I have no problem using you, in the same way that you’ve been using me since the moment we met. It’s not my problem that you finally realized that I’m worth so much more than you. Because I realized it a long time ago. I would have crawled out of my skin to crawl out of your bed. I know that you’re one of the mistakes that I continuously keep making, just trying to prove to myself that the direction I’m moving in is the one that’s right.
I just feel so fucking calm when I think of you.
There are so many dumb little things sprinkled in and out of my days that I can’t wait to tell you about. But you just never sound like you wanna hear about nonsense from me. So I forget about it.
It’s in the precision and concentration of his touch, and the unabashed and brutally honest words that drip from his mouth when he’s running his hands across my skin, as if he’s thinking out loud to himself and he can’t believe that I’m there with him. It’s in the haphazard way that he intertwines his fingers with mine, walking down the street, sitting in my passenger seat, and laying in his bed. There’s an honesty in awkward, unrehearsed comments that I’ve always craved when I’m constantly battered with tried and true smoothness that seems to be dripping in condescendence and the idea that this worked previously and is delivered without a stutter, without a pause, without an incorrect word usage. Give me the awkward silences and the unsure words, the hesitant fingers and the overlapping limbs. I could have laid there forever listening to how fast your heart was beating beneath the palm of my hand. I’ve seen the game and the filler, and I’ve seen the scared and the real; and I’m finally at the point where I’ll choose the latter every single time.
Congratulations on your big day. Better her than me.
In the longterm, I’m never mad at the men that come into my life and then choose to leave it. Each one is a lesson. A story. A stepping stone. Each is teaching me a little bit more about myself and what I want. And better yet, what I don’t want.
I’m only ever mad at myself. For the passing moments that they convince me that I’m any less amazing than I actually am. For letting them in, for being hopeful, for letting myself believe it was more than it was. For wasting my time. For missing them.
Indiscretions remind me to miss you. At least you were real. At least you gave me more than I’ve ever gotten.
If I’ve learned anything about dating and relationships, it’s that everything is always great until it’s not anymore. On the day that consistency finds me, I’ll change my tune. And when someone acts like they want to be taken seriously; I will do just that.