It is work, this mourning.


~e and I used to say it: “I wasn’t free to say yes until I could really say no.” it seems like irony now only because there was (in retrospect) so much under the surface of our relationship where he didn’t feel safe enough to say no–or even yellow (the safe word for hold up, wait a minute!) until I was too frustrated and I slammed the brakes on our partnership myself. I don’t kick myself much one because I did as much I could at the time to make it safe for him (tho I can think of ways I might have done so differently), there’s just a lotta baggage in his overhead compartment, so to speak. and I can relate to that, can’t I? I’ve just got different baggage is all.

it’s been almost two years but I can still feel the scar tissue, shiny and new, still hurts if you press on it too hard, like that shoulda-got-stitches gash in my knee, took years to heal proper. one of these days I will wake up good as new, maybe better than before because I’ve got these lessons under my belt now, and the memory of the things we shared, both good and bad. places where we were strong and places where we were weak, places where we connected and places where we were so at odds it was like trying to build a toothpick bridge from Australia to Canada.


(journal 3-27-2010)

I am in mourning. Don’t tell anyone, I’m trying to keep it secret. I still keep wearing bright colours and dancing, I haven’t given up on light or life or love.

But I have given up on the intimacy that we used to have, the way that your hands used to spread heat. Some times it is a sucker punch in the gut, that you don’t want me–you don’t want any body, now. Maybe barely even your own, maybe only when you’re astride one of your trusty lugged steeds.

I get warm. Under your hands, I writhe, ravenously nipping at your shoulder, but there is no chance to feed. It’s like rubbing dry sticks together only to blow the smoke out. There’s never even flame.

Every  now and again, you give small respite, but it’s never enough to nourish this ache out from my bones.

I clutch at you. I know that I do. I put my hands on you, hoping. I want more, more, more, all because I’m hungry for what I can not have. It is futile, it is not about me. It is about the limits of flesh and the spirit and your own ability to overcome sorrow.

The morning I came home after fucking someone else I washed, but I could still smell it on me. My uterus wept tangy salt tears, skating down my thighs as I walked, yeast and hunger and sex, the things your sheets used to smell of all the time. Sex was tangible in the air, thick as grief or longing, desire drifting in currents.

In other relationships, I have been the one whose desire waned. If yours hadn’t, would mine have done the same? Perhaps. We are not the most sexually compatible pair of people to ever stroll, starry-eyed, hand in hand. More than making sweet and gentle love, I want to push boundaries, push buttons, fuck, though sometimes still tender and kind. But still. I have other lovers with which I do these rough-trade things.

I want you for what we have had, for what we will have, and for what we have, just now–learning and making and analyzing and just settling, comfortably, into our bodies, side by side, in the night.


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