Ladies and Gentlemen, I now introduce you to: Years Apart
What you love is hardly to do with what that something is on its own. It's mostly to do with how you relate to it and what it means to your very being. For are you ever listening to the other until it has something to do with self. Is one ever really in love with anything other than the moment, the situation, the results, and the morning after.
Nights of confessions, laughters, 3 ams, 4 pms, Tuesdays, Sundays that never happened, breakfasts made but never eaten, dinner plans spent wondering why so much silence.
The onslaught of giving and taking.
That's the king of love we were making.
The opening riff to your favorite song.
That's how good it feels from the moment the both of you get on. Once you've held hands, locked eyes and every direction your hand goes is the source of her every breath, and versa vice of course; once you've done that, all just flows like your favorite song always does. And it will never get old.
We roamed from one location to the next. As we stepped into the car with all the tension and intoxication of a kiss that hadn't happened and passion yet delivered, all I kept thinking about is how badly I wanted to just take her right there in my car. She looks like every woman/man you fall for with greater intensity the more/less they say and do. They don't have to be overtly sexual to pinch the right nerves, lick the sweet spot of your neck or abdomen, know where to pull and when to scratch. They are there and they will come into your life. And so she was there. It all happened as suddenly as the decision not to drive back into the labyrinth layout of a night out in Manhattan on a weeknight. I offered a nightcap when I probably meant, "I'd really like to kiss you now." I've never tasted worst margaritas, and even the rum and coke was a mouthful of store brand sugar. Out of excuses and out of a desire to escape stimulation from the heart, mind, body, and soul... in mid-sentence I sat closer to her, cradled her waist and pulled closer my love.
All of her knowledge, all of her craft, fears, pain, vanity, pride, shallow desires, innermost curiosities were crashing into mine. And like the spontaneous ending of a well crafted rock song, we go from the back end of the Titanic tilting vertically to the absolute silence of drowning. I think I meant to drive back to Manhattan eventually. I'm sure we ended up far from it and locked up in my bedroom for a series of days and nights.
Each exchange is like listening to your favorite song. It makes everything else matter. It gets work done, it gets you to work, it gets you back from work, it helps you get through a walk to the store, gets you through the beginning and end of a workout, it's probably the only song you'll never tire of and love with more abrasive nature when others are around.
Because it's your fucking song, it belongs to you and her, to ethereal elements of our conscious memories of what was and could always be.
.........all we want is to own the keys to the castle.......
It can develop over many years with ambiguous comments left on a picture she posts.
Eventually, it's the sporadic conversation in which you abstain from professing any interest, yet you ensure that every exchange is a pleasant and altogether memorable one. Once she starts reaching out to you on her very own, unannounced; she's all yours. It's a gift. It's a beautiful gift for a woman to shower you with attention; an absolute blessing when she wants to spend time with you.
For the most part, women have an easier time choosing who to spend their time with. Men have the hunter/gatherer thing down for centuries now, and sadly, it is hard to get rid of the instinct of wanting to, in fact, fuck every girl in the world.
For many years, I developed a taste for conquest. It became more mathematics than prose. One falls into habits quite easily, especially if the average result is successful in satisfying whatever means were once significant when one walked out the door. It was an innocent exchange. She ventured out to see me after a few months of her dating around and me pretending not to care at all that she had so many suitors.
For some reason, the quiet confidence one has with certain women is the difference between having the patience to see things through and just missing opportunities. Be it delusion or an unspoken understanding that she, in fact, was meant for me for some time now, I proceeded to reach out and hold her hand shortly after she was sitting across the bar from me.
Let's fast forward 22 months from that occasion, the last time I held her hand on Christmas day of this past year. When I reached out for her hand as I drove her home, her fingers didn't grip my hand back. Aside from the chill in our hands, it was a rigid and uncomfortable prison of fingers. Mine were longing for reconcile and hers were standing still, unsure of anything that had happened and even more unclear of what's to come.
I'm as lost as ever as I write this.
Maybe we can make sense of this together...