Beneath all the rationalizing and snappy explanations to myself, there is a quiet laughter. It might be my conscience clearing its throat before whispering to cut me down again, before bringing me back to earth from my lofty fantasies. I feel my pulse quickening when those parts I keep hidden uncoil themselves to bask in the glow of an impending truth, one made sharper by the fact that it may never happen.
I would not be this obsessed with her if I had already fucked her. I would not be this angry with myself, and secretly, silently, with her, if she had cut me off after we had spent a few days and nights with our lips and our bodies glued together.
All that she is and all that she could be and all I ever seem to think about is feeling her hot breath on my neck and smelling her feralness, or rather what I imagine it would be, were we to end up a beautiful naked tangled mess, me tracing her tattoos gently as we lay exhausted in each other’s embrace, her looking up at me, unbelieving that what just happened happened. If it is not that, my mind wanders still: bumping into her in some restaurant in town or a night joint, her seeing me and all the prior feelings, again my imagination, coming back to almost choke her and thrust her back to me, or some such scene.
When she finally shook herself and reciprocated my attempts at a hello, I saw all the possibilities I had abandoned resurrected. Later, when I sobered up, when cold clean cutting reason swam to the shores of my mind, it felt more like shovel-fulls were dug out from an already covered grave and then put back and compacted to better seal in the dead. I can still almost smell her and feel the softness of her hands. I was joking with a friend recently, how in every relationship there is a dog and a cat: the loyal, affectionate and loving one, and the aloof, often unfeeling and entitled one. I have mostly been the cat, and now in this situation….. Woof woof. Honestly, I enjoy it, this melancholy and longing. It reminds me that I can still feel something. Anything.
I know this fixation on her is unhealthy, but it is a wound I do not seem to know how to leave be and let heal. I am constantly scratching at it, reveling in the sweet blue pain, lifting the scab to see the pulsing redness and to feel the sting of loss coloured with guilt and regret, tearing away the new skin to grasp at a daydream I have never admitted to anyone of having – the one where the love that could have been but was lost returns. At least I have pretty, and often not so pretty, words with which to milk myself dry of these poisons, to cauterize and harden what my nails find irresistible. Words with which to heal by numbing and killing and then justifying myself. All over again.