I get lonely too

It felt nice to lay beside you. We have not been this close in three years. It’s almost depressing how I remember what seems to be every minute of our last days together. I ended things three years ago almost to the date. I did not find out you cried about it to one of our closest friends until this year. It made me miss you, but in a sick way, it made me happy.

“This is probably going to sound weird, but, I want to be next to you” It is always offensive that you find it odd when you want to be with me. That is what you said and felt when I gave it up to you for the first time. I know things about you. Things that you once thought you would take to your grave alone. It is not weird to want to be next to someone you found that trusting. But I suppose that is just my opinion.

If I fell in love with someone else, would I still miss you?  Would I still want to lie next to you? Would I still want you to kiss me? Would I still want to hear your stories? Would I still want to pretend that I don’t understand your job, just so that I can keep you beside me longer?

We tried to condense three years of our lives to each other. I wanted to admit that I have not loved, liked, or met any person that has come remotely close to our connection. Doing so would have given you that much more power over me, again. I wanted to tell you how much you changed my life with your absence. Doing so would have reaffirmed the ambivalence I felt when I gave you my new address. I wanted to tell you that I’ve only slept with one other person, and he was at the same party as us. Doing so would have remind me of the stupid games we played to each other years ago. I was not trying to convince you or give you incentives to love me anymore. My loneliness just felt validated next to yours. But, for the first time, I felt like my own person laying next to you. Before, when I went along with you or when I laid besides you after we fucked, I never felt like a complete person. I was always half a person. You carried my heart, but not like e.e. cummings carries his hearts. I always longed for you to complete me. Last night, despite not being blessed by love, it was as if all my hurt and strength culminated in the space between us. Not even the caress of my thighs convinced me to place you on that old pedestal that you once owned inside my heart.

But I miss you and sometimes I want you. I don’t want you to complete me anymore, though. Sometimes I just want you to offer me some relief from my loneliness. You know me so well, after all. It is habit to miss you. I don’t want to walk beside you and hold your hand in the day. I don’t want you to tell me the hypothetical ways in which you might love me. I just want you to lie next to me at night. That is how you taught me how to love and that is what I miss and that is what I want from you, or someone like you. I desperately wanted to write to you tonight, “Come lay next to me. That is all” but I remembered how it felt to give you that kind of power, so I decided to write here instead.

My voice was softer last night. A girl like softness that invokes some mystery. A softness that was warm and that held your fragile ego when I rejected your kiss. I did want to kiss you, really bad, and I wanted to do much more than kiss you because I’ve missed the things that are particular of your love. In the past three years, I haven’t rejected a kiss from anyone because I kept hoping that I would find some semblance of you in them. And isn’t that always the hope of ex-lovers? To find someone like each other but a much more improved version? Something new, but not too unfamiliar. We often try to find the same characteristics of our old loves. I often find myself attracted to awkward, skinny and terrible jokesters that still make me laugh. All things that evolved from you.

I asked you if you if you regretted coming to my house. You said no, but maybe you said that because I sent you a dirty picture. I rejected your kiss, but I sent you my tits. I have to admit, I did it because I like being a tease and I like to see how far I can take things now that I am much more comfortable in my sexuality and sensuality. My pictures were tasteful, though. You can always count on me being classy even when I flash some nipples. My body now belongs in the perennial cloud, and it belongs to the despised characteristics of my generation. But, I took those pictures before you came back. These were rainy day pictures. A day where I thought to myself, “I want to feel fucking sexy tonight, for myself.” Three years ago, I thought sexy was only a feeling a man could give me. A feeling only you could justify.

In this essay, I hope to purge all my feelings of you. I want to gain my focus in this slight derailment into a nostalgia that you brought in with you. A nostalgia that reeked of marijuana and bad sex jokes. A nostalgia provoked by me. I asked if I could call you because I just wanted to talk to you about anything, and you did too. Anything but the past. It’s always difficult to read you, but I know there is a certain desperation in your eyes. I’m sure you’ve met wonderful girls, but you cannot be honest with them or yourself, because you do not know how to process your private anguish. I know this. I know you. I want you to lay next to me because I want to hold your confusion in mine. We can leave each other in the mornings and try to fall in love with other people, new but not too unfamiliar. I just want you to reserve some nights for me, with me or with yourself. I have new directions and new passions that make falling in love with anyone, or with you again, harder to fit in my plans. But I miss you, I just do not want you to know. If you had a song, it would be The Kinks Love Me till the Sun Shines.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

We Will Begin Again

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire

GentlemanSparks

Gentleman with a hint of Spark. If you have any Questions you would like answered email GentlemanSparks@Gmail.com with the subject #ASKGS x

midnightpears

Just another WordPress.com site

The Winter Bites My Bones

The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2016

A Birth Project

Transracial Adoption from one black girl's perspective

The Guilty Preacher Man

abandoned illustrations

projectophile

\ˈprä-JECT-oh-fahyl\ (noun) 1. A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper.

Another angry woman

Thoughts and rants from another angry woman

Unkilled Darlings

Faulkner said, kill your darlings. I say, put them on the internet and let strangers read them.

MiscEtcetera v2

Random bits about libraries, digital culture, life, and writing

glass half full

This is my blog. I write a lot about autism, raising boys, and my own alcohol consumption. I also tend to cover topics like poop and toothpaste. You've been warned.

jessepeckwrites

about all things human

Megan Has OCD

About Mental Health, Daily Struggles, and Whatever Else Pops in My Head

The Belle Jar

"Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences." - Sylvia Plath

Daniel Nester

Writer, teacher, husband, dad, Queen fan, inappropriate, dilletante flâneur, Shader.

spookyactionsbooks.wordpress.com/

a publisher of quality chapbooks

James Henry Dufresne

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire

%d bloggers like this: