It might be too late. You and I. To fall in love.
Tonight I returned. From a foreign land, I returned to find you gone. I never did have you. To love someone whom you knew was never really there was a painful experience. I learned that a few months ago, I used to cry.
Went to the gym and worked out for two hours. I had missed a long healthy work out, I had men to visit, and people I hang out with, but recently I'd decided it was time to reset my priorities, and I had wanted to figure out what was that I wanted versus what they had wanted.
At the end of the work out I laid on that foam roller and as I often did, I put my iPod shuffle to Poison and Wine, a song that I loved. It spoke about how I felt more relevantly than ever. So as I laid on the foam roller I started to feel tears coming out and that was when I realized that my heart was still broken, not mended, not healed, not ready to love again. That heart that was broken remained injured and tormented, and that as much as I liked the feeling of "feeling", I hated the sadness that came with that love.
So why did I allow myself to fall in love? Why and how did I make so many excuses and return to the starting point despited the fact that I should not? I asked these questions because I did not want to be hurt any more. No one hurt me at this point but me. But for so long now I couldn't feel and when I finally start to feel again it became clear to me that my feelings remained the same, and if I knew what was good for me, I should stop seeing him. Move on, move to another person, park emotions elsewhere, find physical pleasure somewhere else, and fall in love with someone else, fuck other men, and get over him. It ought to be that simple
Except it's not. C wanted to see me sooner than the date I had set for us. He asked to see if he could see me immediately. I postponed our date because I was a little bored. I became bored so easily. They were good men, smart, intelligent, funny, good in bed, cute, good looking, and they liked me. They genuinely adored me.They admired me. They went down on me and made me come. They knew how to pleasure me, and fondle me and gave me sexual pleasure that I needed to feel something, anything, but they couldn't amend the hurt. No one could. Not even he who broke my heart could. In reality I knew he was never the man I loved, but I loved the exterior side of him, the side that he wanted me to see, the side that he wanted to hide from me, and the side that showed the true feelings that he occasionally felt towards me. I loved it all.
I cried whenever I thought of him, and the feelings I once held, and perhaps still felt about him.
In the new home I purchased in France, I imagined a life with him and him only. A quiet summer day, with river runs through the edge of the meadow, a blooming honeysuckle vine grown on the side of the wall, the blooming rose pedals fallen off the tree and onto the newly manicured lawn. He came outside to see me while I gardened. He said "I love you and I always will." I looked up to meet his eyes. I would say, "Here we are. We made it." That was the vision I had for him and me. I never thought that we'd get there, and there we were, together like we should have been. Living together and shared the rest of our natural lives together.
But that vision would eventually fade as all my hope had faded. There would still be roses and honeysuckle wine, butterflies, bees and deer, little rabbits heading to the hills, but there would not be him in the picture, the man whom I had loved like a fool, the man who declared his love for me and then disappeared from my life.
It was too late, you see. I had left this life to start a new one in France, a country stone house with antique carved wooden beams for ceiling and Burgundy slabs as flooring, tons of lights and many bedrooms with views only seen in magazines and movies. There was never going to be a chance he'd be with me, he had only said those things to make me feel assured and then he went on to live his life without me. There would be a love story somewhere else, but this one had no Hollywood ending. This one died many months ago before the existence of this house.
It was too late, you see. The world we lived in did not have a happy ending for every person. I had loved and lost, and as much as I had wished for a different life, a different set of circumstance, all I had really left was a heart that was still fragile, and tears could still drip down at the side of cheeks, as I laid there waiting for the clock to strike eight.
It was all too late. There was never going to be a happy ending, and what I felt a few months ago when he had left me, and broke me, was the only thing that was real.
Tonight I returned. From a foreign land, I returned to find you gone. I never did have you. To love someone whom you knew was never really there was a painful experience. I learned that a few months ago, I used to cry.
Went to the gym and worked out for two hours. I had missed a long healthy work out, I had men to visit, and people I hang out with, but recently I'd decided it was time to reset my priorities, and I had wanted to figure out what was that I wanted versus what they had wanted.
At the end of the work out I laid on that foam roller and as I often did, I put my iPod shuffle to Poison and Wine, a song that I loved. It spoke about how I felt more relevantly than ever. So as I laid on the foam roller I started to feel tears coming out and that was when I realized that my heart was still broken, not mended, not healed, not ready to love again. That heart that was broken remained injured and tormented, and that as much as I liked the feeling of "feeling", I hated the sadness that came with that love.
So why did I allow myself to fall in love? Why and how did I make so many excuses and return to the starting point despited the fact that I should not? I asked these questions because I did not want to be hurt any more. No one hurt me at this point but me. But for so long now I couldn't feel and when I finally start to feel again it became clear to me that my feelings remained the same, and if I knew what was good for me, I should stop seeing him. Move on, move to another person, park emotions elsewhere, find physical pleasure somewhere else, and fall in love with someone else, fuck other men, and get over him. It ought to be that simple
Except it's not. C wanted to see me sooner than the date I had set for us. He asked to see if he could see me immediately. I postponed our date because I was a little bored. I became bored so easily. They were good men, smart, intelligent, funny, good in bed, cute, good looking, and they liked me. They genuinely adored me.They admired me. They went down on me and made me come. They knew how to pleasure me, and fondle me and gave me sexual pleasure that I needed to feel something, anything, but they couldn't amend the hurt. No one could. Not even he who broke my heart could. In reality I knew he was never the man I loved, but I loved the exterior side of him, the side that he wanted me to see, the side that he wanted to hide from me, and the side that showed the true feelings that he occasionally felt towards me. I loved it all.
I cried whenever I thought of him, and the feelings I once held, and perhaps still felt about him.
In the new home I purchased in France, I imagined a life with him and him only. A quiet summer day, with river runs through the edge of the meadow, a blooming honeysuckle vine grown on the side of the wall, the blooming rose pedals fallen off the tree and onto the newly manicured lawn. He came outside to see me while I gardened. He said "I love you and I always will." I looked up to meet his eyes. I would say, "Here we are. We made it." That was the vision I had for him and me. I never thought that we'd get there, and there we were, together like we should have been. Living together and shared the rest of our natural lives together.
But that vision would eventually fade as all my hope had faded. There would still be roses and honeysuckle wine, butterflies, bees and deer, little rabbits heading to the hills, but there would not be him in the picture, the man whom I had loved like a fool, the man who declared his love for me and then disappeared from my life.
It was too late, you see. I had left this life to start a new one in France, a country stone house with antique carved wooden beams for ceiling and Burgundy slabs as flooring, tons of lights and many bedrooms with views only seen in magazines and movies. There was never going to be a chance he'd be with me, he had only said those things to make me feel assured and then he went on to live his life without me. There would be a love story somewhere else, but this one had no Hollywood ending. This one died many months ago before the existence of this house.
It was too late, you see. The world we lived in did not have a happy ending for every person. I had loved and lost, and as much as I had wished for a different life, a different set of circumstance, all I had really left was a heart that was still fragile, and tears could still drip down at the side of cheeks, as I laid there waiting for the clock to strike eight.
It was all too late. There was never going to be a happy ending, and what I felt a few months ago when he had left me, and broke me, was the only thing that was real.
No comments:
Post a Comment