I’m ready to end this honeymoon.
Most people struggle to find ways to keep the flame burning. But I look forward to the day I’m in your arms basking beneath the final flicker. I want to revel in the darkness of domestication, the white noise of your snore, the look of your bedhead, the taste of your unwashed mouth.
Passion is perfect but finding love in the little things is where the real light shines through. It’s the way you stir your coffee, the littlest laughs at a television show you’ve seen a hundred times before. It’s the way you cradle the dog, the carefree way you carry yourself in public. You order so I don’t have to. You ask so I don’t need to. It’s how you know when to be distant without dislocating, to be close without being clingy.
As the temperature taxis into temperament, I realize it’s the nuances that narrate our love. We can take our heads off on a Sunday afternoon and lie in bed for hours, talking or silent, slowly slipping into a space of dreams and deep relaxation. Your warm body pressed against mine is all I need.
It’s a hug over the morning’s hash, a kiss over the night’s coffee. Your symphony voice. Your amusement park mind. The strength of your conviction. The bite of your humor. Shakespeare and slashers, French bistros and seedy dive bars, romance and rope bound tight. Multi-faceted, fantastic, and free.
Love is a quiet soldier, marching with a steadfast hope that it will protect the good and transform the wicked. It does not fight with slander but penetrates with protection. It marches, treads, crawls and wades to get to the heart of those it has chosen. It eventually pours over everything, purifying and perfecting in its own way. It does not punish but praises. It does not attack but encourages. It only fights to free us from our own demons. It encompasses each one of us then sets out to find another unsettled soul. We are the vehicles that carry it across sea and sky.
You carried this soldier to me. You convinced me to open my door and let it inside, to unlace its boots and lay down its weapon. It came a long way to find me and now it’s able to settle, to rest, to make a home here. And it allowed me to find rest myself.
Don’t be mistaken that our hearts are ever halved. We are whole and love comes to remind us that we’ve always been fully formed. It uses others to empower us to feel it for ourselves. You tell me with your hands and mouth, with your gestures of kindness, of care, of consultation. You push me to be better, encourage me to be bolder, and love me for all that I am and in spite of all that I have yet to achieve. I feel safer when you’re near, marching along in life with you as my armor, plated with protection, satisfaction, and the security I am no longer lost in this world.
When the decoration of honors and medals melt away, when the soldier leaves for the next assignment, it’s just us in the quiet morning light. We are left to breathe on our own, to soak in the safety of knowing the other will not leave this bed, that years degrade skin and mind but not heart. For love takes the lead and propels us forward through the sadness and sickness. It’s there with a hand to hold, a mouth to kiss, an ear to listen, each part perfected for its partner. It’s presence. It’s practice. It’s a feeling, an emotion, a compulsion that will not wither and die but will soldier on, endlessly.
All I’ve ever wanted was a warm mouth on a cool night, us wrapped together in fleece and flannel, to feel the unfurling gusts of wind whipping up whisps of hair across our faces. The smell of your lips turn sweet smiles into delectable dishes. Your hand rests on my chest, softening the hurried heartbeat, calming the catastrophe of current events.
I always stepped into the day, downtrodden among the atrocities, reaching out in hopes of one day finding your fingers ready to soothe the ache of destruction. I faced each empty slot of time, relenting to the entropy until you stepped in, ready to remedy the rust that had settled into my bones.
Outside, you lead me to the ground and embrace me as the night falls down around us, splitting at the seams and seeping out a serenade for you and me alone. All the bugs and blades of grass bend toward you to bask in your glow. But your focus stays on me, this fumbling failure fortunate enough to fall into your line of sight. Those eyes pierce through all the pain inside, rejuvenating the well-worn will, springing me up with newfound spirit, safe enough to scream, to laugh, to share these blankets with you. The crickets sing, the air dances, and the light grows dimmer, hazy shades of green and black, plaid and pristine wrists, blue branches leading to your chest and lips and eyes. Your delicate cheek on mine shines against the light of the moon, penetrating through the dark clouds that carry a rain that runs past us.
The hashtags and headlines herald in the horrors of north and south, slicing through my serenity. But with your breath beside me, I find a semblance of stillness. The calm of your caress, the bliss of your heartbeat lets me know I am safe from the world and from myself.
My head winds down, drained of dismay and fueled with a thousand fantasies swirling like so many leaves in the wind. A warm drink and skin and smile. Lips pressing into the flesh of forever. A lifetime encapsulated into a late night with you, my heart a steady drum, my blood a slow stream. Fluid dreams and concrete connections. Pulling me out of a ribcage coma and shielding me from the sun’s rays, random bursts of violence, and the gravitational pull of disappointment. It’s the clarity of breath, the breadth of belonging, a kiss so pure it hurts as much as it heals.
Let us not linger in the brightness that breaks through the webs of bark and illuminates the trauma of the world. Kiss me until the light leaks out once more, covered in the safety of this dark. Run with me through the black fields before resting again in the shadows. I listen as your heart slows. You wrap your arms around me and I am wiped clean, a blank slate without shame. You invite me to draw closer. I sink into you, close my eyes, and wish for the sun to burn out and bleed black so the stars can burn bright forever.
“Again I belong to the night
I’m a mess Pull me over
I can’t forget her name
Slow me down
It’s like you’ve stolen my soul
So far from heaven now…”
-Issues, Slow Me Down
“I was your prized possession and who was your exorcist?
Thought you was heaven-sent
You left for the hell of it…”
The mind spins at the thought of affection. A desire brought forth those bright blue eyes from behind your fringe. Parting it back and basking in the realization of prayer, God-sent and God-fearing. But mostly fearing your own wants, needs, desires that deviate from the established word. You kept that hidden between kindness and kisses and a fringe of fellowship fell over my own eyes. I wanted to be your back rub. I wanted to taste your laughter. I wanted to get closer to the one who wanted me.
But not that close.
A firm grip on my fledgling innocence, milking it away from me with no choice, no exception, and no time to process the pumping. Building up and blowing out, rinsed in instant regret, falling farther away from the fantasy and crashing into a cascade of concern.
The brain braids together bonds of mutual fondness to detract from this indiscretion, forgetting the words that fell off a cliff, the kisses that cushioned before cutting, the tongue that lied before licking it all up in selfish starvation. Overloaded, overboard, and boring a hole into my chest with your iron-hot hands, singeing all the hair and stealing all the hope from within my heart with your uninvited skin.
A first crush. A last time. A lost signal sped up then jammed in the dark. Mixing chemicals, trusting words, crossing lines, lying in your bed and lying about your intentions. Red lips and nipples and hands, tensed from tugging, a tale tired from being told.
Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Singular in sensation, suffocation, and suffering. Alone in this affliction you thrust upon me.
Carefully selective only to be stolen in sweat and promises of partnership. Three decades dashed as you went down, determined to conquer this basketcase. Cold. Callous. Inconsequential.
An AWOL angel. An MIA messiah. Death waiting above to witness the final climax before climbing down to peel back the chambers of my chest. Thick down your throat, coating you in my trust. A simple spasm of the body. A complex thrashing of the mind. Attempting to reconcile the religion and the regret in the midst of two bodies melding. Had my savior sanctioned this person of faith to flay all my fantasies or was this just a disciple of the devil, deposed in prayer before prying the life from my lips, lungs, and limbs?
No ring, knock, or other notice of entrance. Barged in and banged down my door. Death of dignity followed close behind. A pale horse come to trample my misconceptions of your intentions. Naivety and hope hauled away in the revelation of identity. Ghosted, roasted, and toasted, burned down to the backbone, easily cracked in half under the ramifications of rejection, of need, of confirmation of humanity.
But the only true confirmation was that the devil teases while God taunts. In the face of lethargy and loneliness, when temptation chides chastity, when worship won’t wash away desire, when sigils, sermons, and sacrifices can’t cut through a calloused brain, we knew we had both failed our father. And that neither one of us were leading by example.
You know, Biblically-speaking.
The light from the television cradled his body, electric blue dancing in his eyes, a cool shadow on the other side of the bed. He rolled around, heavy with worry, his head thick with layers of confusion. A glimpse of a laugh, the rush of lapping it up, the memory of leaving. Crashing into him and forcing him to roll over to find a way to rest.
Beneath our bodies, we are constantly putting together a jigsaw puzzle of our portraits. Some of us are fortunate enough to find our own pieces while others need help from outside sources. People come to assist us in the form of friends, family, and lovers. They can often point out the parts that are hiding right under our noses.
And sometimes we take pieces from their puzzle to try to fit them into ours, thus changing the puzzle, thus changing our portrait. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. The piece gets stuck and we end up carrying it around with us, even after the person in prior possession of that piece peaces out. The puzzle grows in complexity with all the extraneous parts, making it even harder to form a coherent picture. And when someone new comes along, they have to sort through all the clutter to help us assemble ourselves again. It gets messy and complicated and time-consuming. Some people come with a lot more pieces than others, and some with many more missing parts.
At the precipice of dreams, a hand brushed against his nose. A subtle stroke that stole his sleep. Constantly swiping back and forth, a ghost that gutted him slowly. A thief in the night, an omen of bad luck, proof that God hated him. Each imagined scenario avalanched his peace of mind, his desire to move on, his plea to just forget.
“That was the easy part,” he thought to himself. “The mouth conforms to shape and size and silence. Anyone can figure out the physical. But what lies beyond the bend? What compels someone to desire, devour, then desecrate someone else?”
It’s a balance of working at that puzzle without feeling the pressure to complete it. Because maybe the puzzle is never really complete. And maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe it’s a lifelong exchange of pieces between partners, constantly fitting and subtracting, giving and acquiring. The portrait always changes, shifting with our choices, growing as we do, damaged as we are, and falling apart as we come undone.
His eyes finally fell down. Time tripped up the ghost. The words that poured from his fingers told him he would endure. It was the effort of living, the trials of falling, the grace of patience that showed him he had a lot to learn about people and intimacy, fear and greed, boundaries and the boundless hope that still resided in him. For his puzzle, while not nearly complete, was not frayed at the edges or bent in the corners. It wasn’t so much that his pieces had been handled with care. They simply hadn’t been handled at all. But they were just as good as anyone else’s and worth working on. There was potential in those pieces.
But can’t you still enjoy the picture that’s being formed even if there are a few vacant spaces? Maybe that’s the most difficult part. We want the end result, the complete picture. But how often do we stop to appreciate the progress we’ve already made? When he looked at his portrait, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before. It had changed. A few fingers were missing, a part of his left cheek, but while his eyes were closed, both his arms were outstretched. And there was the faintest hint of a smile. Like he was ready.
It was a nice thought but he wondered if he would ever find himself worthy of continuing his puzzle. Was it possible that the empty space between those arms could one day be filled? That his eyes could be opened to all the joy that life could bring? Yes. It was easy to say. Everyone deserves love, right? He could say he was worth it. And maybe someone would one day come along to convince him. But people came and went. He needed to know it for himself. He just couldn’t see how he could. It was a lesson that could take a lifetime to learn.
Maybe the steepest learning curve of all.
“Will you ever know that the bitterness and anger
left me long, long ago
Only sadness remains
And it will pass…”
-Sia, You Have Been Loved
Sometimes I feel nothing at all. But when I do feel, I feel deeply.
It might sound odd but I think there is something sweet about quietly aching over someone, whether they stole your heart or broke it. To know that you can come out of the agony to still find a degree of affection.
I could be bitter. I could focus on all the falsehoods I was fed and the eventual foul feelings I felt. But it’s comforting to know that despite the hurt, I can manage to bypass the bad feelings and burned bridges to find memories that soothe and suppress the sadness.
To be hurt by someone establishes I ever existed at all. Look, it’s right here, marked by all this pain. It makes me feel real.
It was short. But you don’t have to know someone very long to leave a mark. I went through a lot of emotions and I definitely felt a lot of anger. Villainizing felt like the only way to make sense of this mess. But that was an emotional place I could never stay in for too long. The anger evaporated but the depression stayed dominant.
But I’m carrying on, mostly because I don’t have a choice. And while I used to fixate on all the frustration, I don’t think about it quite as much anymore. But when I do, I try to focus on the fun, albeit few, times.
Remembering the cool sheets, the off-brand body wash, the expensive clothing. The smiles and the laughter. Making someone feel good, helping someone forget their troubles for a few hours. Helping me forget my own. The gentle hum of a moan, the labored breathing and soft sucking sounds. The parts that slid together in unison and the jarring surprise of friction. Opening a door I thought was long ago locked.
The mundane and the magnificent. Remembering the skin of another hand, the smoothness of another set of lips, looking into another set of blue eyes and seeing myself in them. Another soul in need. And I want to believe that I did help that soul, if only for a little while.
It was never a Disney movie but that didn’t mean it wasn’t magical sometimes. There are memories I play back in my mind that feel like surreal scenes. It was never about finding perfection, just possibility. It was good enough to find someone to share their couch and body and life with me, to let me in, to allow me a glimpse of how human beings live and experience, to see the back and forth struggle of desire vs. despair, longing vs. loneliness, education vs. indoctrination.
Stepping back brings clarity. I can see a little better now, although I can’t say I understand. I just know I don’t want to be bitter. I just want to be better. I still ache, but not necessarily in a bad way.
People cuddle people. Animals cuddle animals. People cuddle animals. I’ve watched enough cute puppy videos to see the comfort it brings both human and non-human to snuggle up to something else warm and breathing. It’s interesting to see that need for safety, security, and stability in another type of creature. When you think about it, you realize that need spans across all cultures, religions, and species.
I know I’m generalizing. Not everyone is affectionate or wants physical interaction and that’s okay. I still struggle with whether or not I’m that type of person. I’ve always liked the idea of touch but in actuality, it makes me uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s because I’ve been starved of touch for all these years and this is my new norm. Maybe I have just romanticized how therapeutic touch can be and maybe I made it more transformational than it really is. Or maybe I’m just naturally distant. Or maybe I’m just selectively affectionate.
But with the emerging popularity of weighted blankets and the undeniable adorableness of otters holding hands, there’s something to be said for being close. In the animal kingdom, it’s mostly instinct. Survival has a lot to do with it. Safety in numbers. But is it just about the body surviving? That closeness must encourage the head and heart to survive as well. It’s not just a physical need but a psychological response. Maybe when these animals get close to another willing creature, it lets them know they are worth surviving.
That instinct must extend to humans as well. I wonder if that’s where my desperate need to cuddle comes from. When I was cuddled for the first time earlier this year, I felt special for the first time in my life. And for a man who always feels worthless, it made a difference. I felt I was worthy of touching. I was worthy of getting to know. I was worthy of surviving too.
But now that it’s gone, it’s also made a big difference. And I wonder if I was wrong about being worthy of survival after all.
It’s always been a layer of fat covered by a layer of fabric. People were kept at arm’s length to lengthen their stay. No one could ever get inside my brain or beneath my body. I was closed off from the world because I thought it would be easier for everyone. I shrank down so as not to get in the way. But I only ended up diminishing myself.
It’s like I’ve always been shaking hands while wearing gloves. Only feeling the vaguest sense of shape and grip. Basing all my life lessons on what I’ve learned through leather. I was satisfied enough, knowing that I could come and go with dulled senses, unencumbered, and see others off to continue their journey in the same condition.
And then someone came along and thought it best to slide the glove off my hand. To want to truly touch me. And when it came off, my hand was pale with paper thin skin and nerves still new to the elements. And when we shook hands for the first time, I was overwhelmed by the raw feelings. Like a lightning bolt blasting through me. Tactile information flooded my system, buzzed my brain, and jolted my heart into motion once more. It was the silk of skin, the hills and valleys of veins and wrinkles. The warmth, a soft pulse inside a palm, the quiet buzz of life. It was terrifying and electrifying and once I became accustomed to the feeling, it was addicting.
That’s when I began to understand how other people craved the touch of one another. There is so much more to people than a general shape and perfunctory pressure. There were hidden details, secret sensations, invisible chemicals that danced between skin, signaling something inside me to no longer shrink, but to expand.
It’s like quenching a hidden thirst, feeding a long-dormant hunger. How could I not want to continue when I never knew this kind of nourishment existed? I couldn’t see it as greedy or abnormal. The only oddity here was never knowing this was an option.
But as much as I wanted to continue to consume each sensation, the one who removed the glove decided it was best to slide it on again, unable to cope with the possibility that my skin might be as healing to them as theirs was to me. They only reached out once more, not to wrap their arms around me, but to shake my hand goodbye.
As much as I wanted to shrink again, as much as I wanted to concede to concealing myself, I knew it was no longer a viable option. The glove was suddenly suffocating. The skin-to-skin was too pure, to real to repeal from me.
Still, it hurts to think about what my hand might have to endure to feel skin again. To experience all of the wind and rain, the ache of winter, the burn of summer. The needles of rejection stabbing my fingertips, the jagged edges of a broken heart slicing my knuckles. My skin isn’t tough. My nails aren’t armor plated. But the seasons are changing and I think I should as well.
I don’t want to settle for salutations experienced through stitched fabric. I want to replicate that real feeling over and over again. I want to extend my hand in hopes I can feel human once more, that someone will come along with a firm handshake, see my glove on the ground, and grip me even tighter.
I’ll miss the glow of your cheek when you smiled. The thunder of your voice when you laughed. The rhythm of your moans when you…
The scene sets over me like a picnic blanket gently floating to the ground. Your ocean eyes danced in the light of the television, a hunger haloing your irises. Your grin, so wide and wild, pushed up prescription lenses. Your hand found its way to the underside of my arm, running your finger along the veins at my wrists.
There was the awkwardness of initial attraction and cautious approach. It was the pressure of your lips, the warmth of your saliva, the shield of smoke that clung to your hair. It was the fear of moving upstairs and the safety of the dark when we got there. It was the paralyzing adrenaline the first time you put your hand in my underwear and wrapped your fingers around it.
It was my first time with you, with anyone. Scared as all hell until I felt the soft tug, the slow reveal, the gasp of admiration. You ran your finger through the clear liquid and brought it to your mouth. The undulation of your wrist. The waves of nerves that rolled over me like the tide of the ocean until I felt lightheaded.
The fear, shame, tease, and craving for more swirled inside that one concentrated cluster. The heat of your mouth, your two hands working in unison. An onslaught of feeling until shortcircuiting, going numb before climbing higher, swelled with loaded senses and disbelief unfolding before me.
Trusting you with all I had, putting it forward in your palms and feeling assured you would not harm it. Your fingers all over my chest, your mouth at my belly. Gentle kisses, a tickling tongue. Grabbing hold again, your finger running along another series of veins.
Deepened breath, the smell of exertion seasoning our bodies. Moisture rolling off your forehead, me running my hand along your smooth silhouette. Disconnected from thought and apprehension, diving deeper into the realization of occurrence, laughing at awkward changes in position, focusing again on your smile, the purse of your lips, your eyes scanning every emotion, plunging forward with abandon, tongues tap dancing together between two sets of smooth lips, building up layers of pleasure, growing, trembling, cascading.
Learning to coordinate limbs and lungs, scaling to higher planes. Blocking out the world to concentrate on the slippery sounds, the unparalleled sensations, the rush of breath magnified in my ears, the dizzying throb of my heart.
Perspiration perishing fantasy and rebuilding rapturous stimulation in its stead. I did not imagine it would go like this, a tangle of emotions and movement, a buzz of fear weaving between a heaving chest, my body lit up, my limbs uncoordinated but determined. A rustling of hair against smooth sheets, spread out in the open, locked away from the world and locked into each other. It was both unremarkable and exhilarating, everyday hands doing extraordinary things. There was no crescendo of music, no divine revelation. It was grounded in sweat and scraping teeth and muscles that grew tired and all the wonderful explosions in between.
Feeling the rush of pride from making you shudder with my mouth, your body rising and quivering beneath me. I felt strong, powerful, sensual in the moments when you grabbed my hair and pulled me in further. I never knew I could affect a body and bring about a pleasure that bloomed so beautifully. The soft exhalation, the quiet tremors, the goosebumps that spread along your legs and spread a smile across my glossed face. You closed your eyes and let me take you there with my teeth at your back and my salt on your lips, with my brush and your canvas, filling in the lines I’d fantasized about long ago.
I think I’m damn good at this.
I could be naked with you, red marks along transparent skin under an even swirl of hair. You did not turn away but put your hands everywhere with a tender grace. You nurtured my body, put my mind at ease, and took charge of my curvature, making great effort to fit it all in.
We could examine each other without distraction, comparing and contrasting textures and temperatures, playing doctor about twenty years too late. I’d never seen it up close. It was a scientific study, a once forbidden door you allowed me to open whenever I wanted. And I allowed you to touch me wherever and whenever you wanted. My cheeks reddened each time you marveled at it, molding and shaping me with your lithe fingers.
Falling so far into you, reaching nirvana on a firm mattress, sprawled out with no clothes and no more fear of judgment. My head flying away from the moment with only reflection reeling inside me under the covers, covered up with you wrapped around me in a sleepy encore. More lips, more eyes, resting up and failing to resist round 2. And 3.
My body can achieve miracles.
I think I will miss that freedom the most, the permission we both granted each other to lean in for a kiss, to reach over for a handful, to allow each other to have free reign over our vessels. Because for a while, I thought I belonged to you. And I was happy to give you want you wanted.
It wasn’t just your body but the body of work I wrote in my mind, ideas to tease and excite you, planning scenarios where I could place my hand in yours, where you would lean in and rest on my shoulder. Sensual times when I could perfect the flick of my tongue, to get to know your needs and never take you for granted. Simpler times on your couch with pizza and a remote, sleepy times with slow back massages in your bed. Quietly and wholly just sharing each other, relying on the other one to give not only physical pleasure but emotional support. Not only removing clothes but removing walls, pulling back the cloth and the cage and feeling the pulse of partnership penetrating both of us.
I hate that you closed that door, that I won’t see your bed again, that once I finally found my comfort with you, finally started to feel good about what I could do with you, to you, and for you, you took it all from me. I gave you my body and you only gave me a goodbye. All the plans and excitement and fondness has faded. I can’t imagine giving myself over to another.
I’d easily relinquish each release if it would release you from your own hell. We couldn’t be further away from your bed and I often fear I couldn’t be further from your mind. I’ve waited patiently in hopes that something would change. That maybe you’d see that we could have been good for each other.
But with each passing day, that hope disintegrates and it dawns on me that you don’t want anything to change. You’re perfectly happy not having me in your life. With no explanation. No regret. And no remorse. I want to be strong for you but you must not have realized how weak I always was. I’m too vulnerable, too exposed. I want to cover myself up again but even if I did, I’d still feel utterly and shamefully stripped.
“I can never get out of here
I don’t wanna explode in fear
A dead astronaut in space…”
-Marilyn Manson, Disassociative
”The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I’m always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart…“
-Florence and the Machine, Cosmic Love
I still picture your face in my mind. That perfect night when you gave me that perfect smile that conveyed more than words ever could. There was a whole galaxy in your grin. A whole universe of longing orbiting your eyes. The gravity of your heart pressing down on mine. For the first time, it was a weight I didn’t mind bearing,
I still think of you every day. My torso trembles in tandem with my phone. My parched eyes drink in your words. I still savor your touch. The rush is still just as real as it ever was. But for you, the wonder has waned. I’ve accepted it but I’m not ready to release my feelings. Not quite yet.
I keep your face behind my eyelids to remind me of the time you adored me, this pale stranger with a dark sense of humor. That’s when you were still curious about my character and the contents of my head. We stood by my car, us learning, me planning, you drawing closer. The excitement of a fresh heartbeat. The thrill of newfound opportunities.
Together, we looked up to the atmosphere like we were discovering some uncharted something. It was creating fluffy creatures from the clouds and soldiers out of the stars. Connecting new dots and forming figures of faith and fortune in the sky. It was about making sense of the world around us, leading each other to conclusions of closeness and contentment. Your sweet words were like satellites spinning around my soul and I felt like I was floating.
Cloaked in midnight, your smile was a tunnel directed toward me alone. And I was too caught up in the constellation of feelings, too starstruck to see the plight at the end of that tunnel. You were in a world of pain that I could not penetrate or perish. I took your hand in hopes of helping you heal. But you loosened your grip and left me to hurt instead.
Did you ever ponder the gravitational pull of my own pain? How I needed you as much as I thought you wanted me? Did you notice the satellites stray off course? Or did you only have enough strength to stare down your own demons?
I had hoped to feel the swell of your heart but only found a division there, a widening gap that I could not seal. I felt bound to you but you blasted off like a rocket. Now I’m left with a black hole in my chest, pulling in reminders of you and burying them deep down inside, a mix of good memories and melancholia.
I wish I had that smile back. I wish I could see that face again, just once more to burn into my memory. There was such purity there, an innocence. A face that opened up my whole world.
It was cosmic once. Now it just feels like comets crashing into me.
”Something’s missing in me
I felt it deep within me
As lovers left me to bleed alone
Down here, love wasn’t meant to be
It wasn’t meant to be for me”
”When you close your eyes even then your eyelids are beautiful
for so long there have been traces of you in blood vessels inside my skull”
-Showbread, I Want to get Married
A couple of Saturdays ago, I went to a wedding with an old friend. I didn’t know the married couple and all the attendants were new to me but the friend needed a plus one and borrowed me for the occasion. You see where this is going. I just needed to find something blue.
Despite my anxiety around crowds, especially crowds of strangers, I figured it would be a change of pace. A chance to do something different, to ask off work, and dress up a bit. I just hoped I’d be able to squeeze my binge-eating butt into my old slacks. I did…but barely.
The ceremony itself was fine. It was simple, inside a simple church with simple decoration. No blue sashes or neckties. No blue in the flowers. Just a red-faced toddler sitting in front of me and a bellowing baby sitting behind me and they both screamed in unison just as the ceremony began and continued their commentary throughout because my life.
Despite my current situation, I didn’t feel too bitter or sad about seeing two flesh become one. I was pretty unaffected witnessing the standard union of two people, in love and full of life. It happens every day. Life goes on. Good for them. The only discomfort came from those slacks. But one moment did stick out to me. The pastor read a quote from Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 that goes:
Two are better than one,
because they have a good return for their labor:
If either of them falls down,
one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
and has no one to help them up.
Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
But how can one keep warm alone
Though one may be overpowered,
two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.
Having never been in a relationship, I wondered why I’d never been able to find my own plus one. How had I made it 32 years while God made sure I remained lonely? If He had allowed such a declaration to be included in the good book, why have I always been denied the privilege?
While the ceremony was about 30 minutes, the reception went on for three and a half hours. And it was mostly held outside. No blueberries in the fruit plate while the newlyweds went off to be photographed with family. No blue ribbons adorning the arches. Why do people in the south insist on having outside weddings in the middle of summer? I was drenched in sweat and wanted to leave but the girl I went with wanted to stay for the cake cutting and to try to catch the bouquet. Don’t get me wrong, the cake was one thing this big boy was looking forward to but in this case, I’d rather have air conditioning than confections. I was a good sport, however, and smiled and blotted my face and tried to inconspicuously unstick my bat-winged balls.
And when it was cake time, I eagerly got in line. No blue fondant. The lady serving the cake cut off the smallest piece possible for me. Oh, sorry ma’am, I thought I was gonna be able to get more than a few crumbs that fell off your knife. I looked at her, thinking she would realize the error of her ways and cut off a little more for me but she just stood there so I quickly dipped out and ate the slice in three bites.
It was a little dry.
Turns out, the bride wanted to wait until it got dark outside so she and her husband could walk out under sparklers. Which meant more waiting, more forehead blotting and being the iPhone photographer for everyone else who knew each other and wanted to blow up Instagram with high school friends in rolled hair and pretty dresses.
Even the girl I attended with drifted away for a while to take pictures with former work friends she hadn’t seen in a while. I looked around me and saw everyone with someone else. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Wives and husbands. Best friends. The caterers and photographers doing their jobs. Everyone with a purpose. I stood by the wall, unsure of what to do with myself. And I felt like there should have been someone next to me. Someone to help me up, to keep me warm, to defend me against my own self-destructive thoughts. Someone to make me feel like I also had a purpose. But the only thing that ever stands next to me is an empty void and that void only reminds me that I don’t have a purpose.
Night fell but the heat did not wane. It penetrated through the dark and doled out more sweat for me. All the single ladies gathered around the bride. As she flung the bouquet into the arms of an overzealous 20-something in a billowy yellow dress, I realized I had found my something blue. It was me.
God knows my heart, knows I have a lot of love to give, and yet I always stand alone. Sometimes I think I’m getting close and despite my hesitations to let anyone near, I do because there’s always the faintest hope that maybe my person has finally come, that this could be the one to turn it all around. But they only turn me in the direction I’ve already traced too many times. And I wonder why God would tease and punish me in this way. Denying me is one thing. This just feels deceitful.
I’m not saying I’m more deserving of love than anyone else but I do think I need it more than most. I can’t do life by myself. I can’t conquer my demons all alone like this.
The ache never really goes away. Sometimes it gets easier to deal with but it’s never defeated. Do you know what it’s like to see the world through glass, to feel others through gloves? To live life for bitter and worse, to endure sickness and hell, to forever be separating until death does me apart?
To be one strand already broken?