| He reminds me of You |
This morning, I sat down with a bowl of oatmeal and contemplated your presence. After a 17-minute shower filled with thoughts of regret about yesterday’s conversation, the jitters were still there. He is nice and he listens, and he is there. Physically. When I don’t think about his imperfections, I want to grind my body into his and merge our souls. The attraction is that deep; it is that intense, sometimes I worry it might be a bottomless pit I’m falling into. But he is only and is only just a man. Talking to him makes me think of you. It is a far-from-lovely thought that starts in my head and ends up as bile in my mouth. It brings on the jitters and feelings of unease, like a wellspring of distaste, building to an anti-climaxed crescendo of loathsomeness. I hope you’re happy now.
So I turned on the sound box and hoped the pleading sounds from a harmony of Australian voices would steady my heart and maybe calm the nerves. It did for a moment, as though you were staring at me from the moon, your arms stretched out as far as the two-day gap between us, wrapping me up in a kind of blanket of comfort. As soon as it came, it was gone. This has been us for a while – you come and then you go, leaving me trembling and unsatisfied, constantly fearful, wondering what I have done wrong now. I thought about the harmony, the words, with a vision of a faraway Santa Claus and realised … praise had packed her bags and left my heart. I feel nothing towards you. Even when I sit in the pews and sing, it comes out of my mouth – dry and empty – from the place where I keep my “supposed to”s and “lost loves”. A place where I keep memories of fondness-es passed, soon and hopefully to be forgotten.
When I loved you, loving him would’ve filled me with a wretched guilt. Mostly because he doesn’t worry about you or what you would do to him if you found out. He cares only for the present, he appreciates the moment and doesn’t aspire to a future glory with me. He works for his glory to come to him now; and it is a very, very sexy thing. He toils and he labours – sweat and blood – and drinks beer at the end of the day, a thing I like to sit in silence and watch. His adam’s apple is like a thing of beauty, a miracle in itself while he drinks. He seems, as it seems, to be strong in himself, by himself, of himself. He is surrounded by waves of my admiration. He doesn’t worry about you anymore; at least not like he used to. He reminds me of the moon. Lifeless, yet solid. Empty and cold. And me? I am his sun … and he glories in my admiration. He comes to life when he reflects my warmth.
He reminds me of the moon. He comes with the darkness. And he is rising.
He reminds me of you.
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