Return often and take me,
Beloved sensation, return and take me–
When memory of the body awakens,
And old desire again runs through the blood;
When the lips and skin remember,
And the hands feel as if they touch again.
It has been five years, perhaps more, since I first learned to love you. That is, over sixty months, two hundred and sixty weeks, and even more days since I discovered my capacity to love.
It has not been easy, it has not been sweet, nor neat, nor clean. Five years of carrying two. Two hundred and sixty weeks of refusing to choke, or crumble. All for you to destroy each year’s work, each month’s toil, each week’s sweat, each day’s trudge, each night’s un-poured tears with fears, jests, and indifference? Silly games, and adolescent angst?
By now, I should be angry; I should be hurt, or upset, or weary, but I have known weariness, and worn hurt, and been the face of anger for too long to feel those now. In their place is a pleasant apathy. One that I will perhaps never tell you of, because a part of me does still care about the things that weigh you down at nights, but these are the things that change a person. They craft a glass wall that would bring pleasure to even the most blinded glassblower’s eyes…a hazy, translucent wall–dyed crimson at its centre, swirling a kaleidoscope of blues, and blacks beyond that crimson, until there is nothing but the glistening sparkle of crystal–with only hints of yellow forming a silver-lining along its uneven, but smooth surface.
You are not to blame. Well, not entirely. There is me. There is the 17 year old boy who taught a five year old things she should not know. A mother whose best skill was not asking questions she did not want the answers to. Friends who did not have the capacity to return what they could not understand. And perhaps, even others.
You see, it is not that I am angry, or hateful. Not even that I am petty, and strangely enough, not that I do not understand why you are, the way you are, or that I do not love you. I simply. Just no longer. Care.
Sigh. Such a waste of a pretty quote.
Do not return to me.
There are limits.
Note: To be read with a pinch of salt, and probably a few other seasonings. There is such a thing as venting. 🙂