i know he’s no good for me. i know i am nothing to him. i am more than aware of all his failings and inability to have a authentic relationship because of his past and his unresolved pain which he won’t fully admit to. yet i still reply to his messages. i still send one after weeks of no contact. i no longer pine for him and yet when i have that brief and tenuous encounter, it makes me feel alive and emboldened.
i remember the intensity. the torment. the ecstasy of being in his arms. because no matter how damaged he is or how much he shields himself against the possibility of emotional attachment, when he is done with me; after he exquisitely manipulates my body so that i am unable to control anything about who i am, he holds me. he strokes my back and kisses my forehead. he is more than tender.
it is as if i have a brief glance into the possibility of the man he wishes he could be, who is at once vulnerable and protective. who is allowed to be at peace with the comfort of a woman pressed tightly against him, as he shifts into me with a quiet sort of desperation to not lose the moment and keep it alive as long as he possibly can. it is because of this poignant and fragile span of time, that i know i am so much more than a sexual conquest to him. i know he fears it as much as he needs it.
he needs to keep me on the periphery of his awareness so he can remember how it feels to be vulnerable and not be hurt. and he is in no way ready to do the work needed to heal himself to allow that type of relationship to flourish. part of me is glad. i know he would have to battle his demons and that i would be a casualty of his mistakes. he is not ready for me and not ready for the type of woman who will be anything more than a sexual conquest for him.
but he can’t let me go. not anymore than I can, him. and in my dreams, as i become older, i know he will be the memory i recall with a secret smile on my thinning lips, the sparkle of light in my watery eyes, as i recall passion and the erotic ramblings of stolen afternoons and earnest while longings. perhaps he is not deserving, but who the heart chooses and the body desires, becomes the steady flow of creativity and light, through your veins. time and absence doesn’t change it.