Sort Of

 

“I’m sort of seeing someone,” I catch myself saying, feeling an immediate tug of guilt, realizing what a lie this simple statement really is.

I’m not sort of  seeing someone.

I am quite intentionally seeing him.

I see his tired mind at the end of the day when work begins to loosen its hold on his thoughts. I see his smile-creased eyes as we dance around the kitchen preparing dinner. I see his eyes flutter closed as I pull his face to mine. I see his blue eyes rise and fall as we hop from story to story, from silly to serious and back again. I see his comfort as we settle into the loveseat, as our bodies overlap. I see the hunger in his eyes as he pulls my shirt up and over my head and arms. I see his slender frame, dewy and fresh, as we tiptoe from the shower to the bed. I see his face fall slack as sleep overtakes him.

And I know he sees me.

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It’s Only Time

It was a matter of years —YEARS— since I really understood myself, if I can even say such things are possible at that age. Too long, regardless, since I felt any sort of control over where I was headed and how I was going to get there. I had pulled the plug on one possible future for fear that it wasn’t going to be enough for either of us no matter how it turned out. It had been far too long since I had stepped out and made my own way.

It was a matter of months —MONTHS— after meeting the personification of reason and logic that I grew increasingly enamored by his focus and perceived emotional calm. I admired his mannerisms and ability to pull me back down to Earth when my mind left without me. I appreciated the predictability, but I wanted understanding. I wanted an outlet without judgement. I learned a few of the truths behind falling in love with a person not suited for me.

It was a matter of weeks —WEEKS— between when I decided that there was nothing to be upset over, nothing to hope to return to, nothing back there that I wanted anymore. I had no sooner reactivated my profile than you sent me a message. Carefully worded, but with clear intention and attention. You were intelligent and oh, so witty. Your messages brought me so many smiles in those first few days of shaking off the funk.

It was a matter of days —DAYS— after we began talking that we had plans to meet for dinner and ice cream. I showed up sweaty and panting from my ride with only minutes to spare before you were to arrive. Not having felt the nerves that day or even on the ride to the restaurant, I was suddenly overtaken by the ohmygod’s as soon as I saw the mess that was me in the bathroom mirror. ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. What am I doing? Am I ready for this? What do I want?

It was a matter of hours —HOURS— after that first date, after eating ice cream in the rain, after the first kiss you placed on my cheek that you sent me a message wherein you declared your desire to throwing social dating conventions aside to promptly and most hopefully request a second date. Sitting at my desk, surrounded by my daily work I couldn’t shake the smile from my face.

It was a matter of minutes —MINUTES— after we lay on the floor reminiscing over the music we couldn’t believe we ever stopped listening to that we started opening up. We spoke of our families and the quality of relationships we do or don’t have with them. We spoke of our pasts and the people we used to be. We spoke of where we are and where we hope to be headed. We shared little hopes and larger dreams with the soundtrack of my younger self playing softly over the gentle rustling of the midsummer breeze.

It is only a matter of seconds, my dear —SECONDS— of watching your hands, the way your eyes wrinkle at the corners when you laugh, before my affections began their pouring out, all and right away.

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No Other Way

It has become clear in recent years that I have a difficult time staying unattached. I don’t have a hard time being alone though, I enjoy alone, but I love having that person, that affection, that security. I enjoy having someone to throw my arms around when I walk in the door. I enjoy having a face to hold and kiss and adore. I enjoy having someone to dream of and write about. I enjoy having someone to plan and imagine a future with. I enjoy having someone to love.

Even while single, it’s highly likely that I have someone in mind, that I’m not so patiently biding my time. It’s quite likely that I’m either healing or pining or hoping to be noticed, hoping that they’ll see me, that they’ll be accepting of the person I’ve become and excited about the person I’m still growing into.

Despite having applied my best effort in years past, I fail miserably at taking it slow, at playing it safe with the dispersal of my attachments. I throw myself into the ring and sometimes I’m met with an even match, other times I find myself vastly out-classed. In the end it makes no difference the outcome; I love to love and be loved, even if it’s temporary. I put more of myself into loving than is likely advisable. I believe in hope, which some see as naive, but what other way is there to love people but totally and completely.

It does make me curious though, what this might actually say about me. Regardless of the pummeling I have survived at the hand of lost loves, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love big, not because it’s expected or beautiful or romantic, but because I know no other way.

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