“It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.” ~ Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility.

 

Have I misread our late evening walks with my hand in yours?

Have I put more than I should have into your kisses, your lips on my collarbone?

I’m not new to romance nor am I nakedly naïve. And yet, I’m beginning to question what you mean by forever with me.

Because your words speak of a life with me but you keep me estranged from what makes you real.

It’s the little things I’ve noticed that before I would have been blind to.

Like when we make love. I’m bare to you in body, but rarely in my soul. You are expert at taking off my clothes but my honesty makes you quiet and withdrawn.

I don’t want to convince myself of something that we don’t have. Well, actually, I do, but I know better than to go there.

We are often like the ocean and the shore; meeting yet retreating, never fully embracing the fullness of the intimacy I crave.

I receive your flowers that come without fail to my door, always wondering if this ritual is something that one day I will grow to hate.

Bring me a daisy that you’ve plucked from the side of the road, whisper your secrets in my ear. Smile your wickedness with intent, I wish to feel the warmth of your skin. It’s not anything you’ve done that hurts, it’s that I’m fighting to fall into a depth of you that you never reveal.

My love, I burn with fire for you, but you are the cool of a stormy winter night.

Your hands create art on my skin but I’m never the masterpiece in the end.

I feed on the remnants of connections that we’ve have shared. I fear that it will never be enough, the scraps of your authenticity have been scattered without generosity on the table of our love.

My breasts in your hands are not sacred offerings but a quest for skill on your part.

I’m afraid that what we have won’t last through the lifetime I hope to be yours.

Because when we’re together I’m alone in the room.

Because when you call me I know that I’m not the only thing on your mind.

Because we look good on paper but in real life there is no meat on the bones of our relationship.

I know I have to walk away, and that when I do you will protest and say, “I thought we were fine.”

If I don’t gather the courage for this, one day we will wake up strangers, and that would break my heart.

There’s not enough of what makes you hurt, what makes you fear, what makes you vulnerable in this love to bond us through the tough times.

I know that you don’t know what I’m talking about, this is the way you’ve always loved. You’ve given what you have and I cannot ask you for what you’ve yet to discover about yourself.

I’m yours forever but forever is a long time with someone who slips like a shadow through the halls.

I’m not the one. I know it deep down. I’m not suited for a dance of silhouettes without faces or form.

I’m letting you go. I know not how to break open your self-protective shell.

I’ll forever be your one for now.

 

 

“It’s in giving yourself that you possess yourself” ! Lou Andeas-Salome

Author: Monika Carless 

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Pixaby

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