I forget when it started but I remember the feeling of it gripping my shoulders, arms, and torso.
I forget why, but I remember moving my TV into the bedroom, and then back into the living room with regret and grief and sadness.... and that feeling of completion without completion; an almost emptiness of wasted time and not-quite-enough effort.
I forget the feeling of fear that took over my whole body, but I remember making a conscious choice not to say anything.
I forget what changed, but I remember needing to say something eventually.
I forget when I stopped sleeping, but I remember feeling shocked that I fell asleep on you... I remember you saying "babe, we've long since crossed that bridge," making me forget that what we weren't.
I forget when I stopped thinking of love as something that wasn't terrifying, but I remember not eating for a week or more, missing you every day.
I forget when I stopped thinking I deserved love, but I remember feeling like I was too much, too little, and just plain off, all at once.
I forget what it felt like to feel safe in your arms, but I remember that booming screaming quiet anger that pushed me over the edge.
I forget why I am terrified of that, but I remember feeling like a 5 year old girl; feeling somewhat sad for her, and somewhat sad for the 12 year old you lashing out... and the knowledge that the whole cycle seemed almost inevitable...
I forget if I ever had any hope for this, but I remember feeling both liberated and devastated by the ending rituals...
I forget if I have felt like this before, but I remember this knowledge like it were the word agridulce tattooed on my right hand.

I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now. I wanted to say it as you reached for your wine that night after we disconnected-- both afraid of ourselves and the trajectory of our feelings for each other. I wanted to say it as the moonlight shone in on you as you slept in your bed after the first time we slept there; when I felt your heart racing against my chest... But mostly I wanted to say it the last night I saw you as you held me in your arms, looking up at your precious face, knowingly looking down at me; you still inside me; quiet, motionless, but so inside me.

I wanted so badly to tell you that. The words each time graced my lips like an imposter only to fall away like some great lizard that was taken out to sea to rein its fury on the dark ocean alone unbeknownst to any herein. I
pray that you can hear them for what they are; feel them for what they are, and not mar them with the knowledge that they stand apart from your ability to reciprocate them. Please take them into your heart with your eyes closed and
your soul open for just a moment; my voice speaking them softly in your ear with a kiss. 

When you smile; when your head lightly moves to dance; when your tongue finds my lips; when you ramble over a glass of whiskey; and when you sit naked after we’ve made love; when you act boldly; when you laugh; when you
squeeze my hand; when you call my name in a gruff whisper; when your heart races on my chest in a close embrace; when you love me.

What I’m sad about is selfish. I’m sad about timing. I am only a woman and as a woman, I miss you. I miss you terribly. I miss your kiss. I miss your smirk. Oh, how I miss your smirk. But most of all, I miss the moment
that hasn’t happened yet. The moment when you let yourself fall for me. 
 
What makes it hard for me is knowing how much you care for me; how much, in a way, you do love me. How much you would enjoy smiling wryly as you hurled yourself backwards off the cliff and said “Catch me, baby.” If I didn’t know that I could make you a villain; me a victim and sooth myself. But I can’t because it isn’t the truth—the truth we both know. The truth is: not today.

 I know that you would never fly a million miles just to see me smile at you. Some day maybe; but not today.
 
So I guess I better disappear. I know you’ll be okay and soon I will be too. And maybe, just maybe, if Goddess so desires, a day will come when , as friends, we will find ourselves accidentally strolling along the white cliffs of
Dover, or the mountain rocks of Medicino, or the bonnie emerald north of the Scottish seaboard or the glistening harbor of old New York, or on a path in Michigan. And from the heights in the stars amongst the angels whose arms will cradle us, in a moment neither of us was told about but knew like our oldest happiness, we will look into each others’ eyes, and know it is today; it is today.

And whether that day is tomorrow or next week or next year or next lifetime, I will finally get to tell you to your sweet face, the face that I will miss more than I could ever tell that, I love you. I love you. Oh baby, I love you. 

And you’ll smile wryly, close your eyes, and say “catch me, baby” and fall.

It seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that the last thing I wrote so many years ago in this tiny red journal that I only use when traveling was about you.... before we met and long before you noticed me, if we are to go on the assumption that you ever did notice me; because it took me approaching you, and even then it's suspect that you ever did...

I wish I could hate you or say you were mean or unkind in some way, but I can't because I don't and you weren't... yet... You just never noticed me. It's almost like I am a silhouette of undetermined form with obvious edges but no details; yet I know it's the details that make me so good. But you can't see the details, and I want to say it's ok, that you just kind of wasted my time ignoring those beautiful details, like you waste food and yourself... But deep down I know I deserve more and it's not ok, and I am so angry at you for wasting those details... 

 It seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that your driving music and your sex music are the same. And it is fitting that my sex music and my emo writing music are the same... That I sit here, reading words I wrote so long ago, wishing I could make these differences into similarities or align our completely different psyches in some other way... So fitting that my attempts to avoid this feeling-- this space-- have been complete failures... That I sit here now, so many years later, feeling this feeling... surviving it anyway...

It seems fitting that the one time we made love was not under the veil of connection, but more when we realized that it was never going to happen but still decided to travel down that road that we both knew would end in a cliff. You knew you would survive, because you could bail out, sail, or fly to safety.... leaving me here- where I always knew I would end up.

And for some reason it seems fitting and ironic (in that Alanis Morissette kind of way) that I want more than anything not to leave you, even though I should and perhaps need to.... because I have been trained to love people who only see my silhouette; people whose favorite picture is that red one that provides no detail but a general feeling of numb nothing.... much like this blog, vague and obscure... detailing the detail-less ending of this vague and obscure affair.