Two and a half months we dated. Two and a half months I didn’t write. Not a scribble in my journal, not a blog post, not a hand written letter, rarely an e-mail…. about “us”. We were “We” for two and a half months. I didn’t write, for fear of jinxing a love that felt all too real. I didn’t write because my awkward uncertainty could not be expressed on paper. I just didn’t know what I felt. I didn’t know what to describe or how to pin it all down into words. It hurt too much to write about the mixed up feelings, the fleshly fresh blood of a ripped open heart.. old places stitched up for good, never to be revisited.. well, he visited those places, those memories, those pains, those wounds. He went there, to love me. He went there to help heal the long festering sores. He began to teach me how to receive and he never asked for anything in return. He just wanted to love me, to protect me, to give me the things I needed most.
Two and a half months.. or so, give or take a few days. On September 11th, he whispered, as he held me tight, that he felt like a nerd, but he had to tell me it was our two month anniversary. Was he counting from the same day I was? Was he right? Two months? Maybe I’ll give him three. I squirmed in his grasp. I squirmed all two and a half months.. or so. Some days I longed for his face, for the safety of his embrace. Some days I was strong and decided I could do without him, my independence is important to me; other days I just wanted to know he was there… and he was, he always was.
Good morning texts and a “good night, my love” before bed. He claimed me. I’ve never felt claimed before.. I’ve never felt like anybody’s. He would call me “My Sweet” and I would tell him I didn’t know why but it made me uncomfortable. He knew why.. he would tell he that he claimed me. I was his girlfriend and he was so happy to have me… there, in that intimate place. I’d run away and he’d be there, he’d be waiting.
One week, one week ago, we broke up. One week ago, I decided I couldn’t sit still in his embrace, I felt selfish for loving him for the way he loved me, the way he gave to me, the way he was simply there in the midst of my emotional baggage. He’s still there, he told me so. He didn’t say, “I’ll wait for you” but he did say that he understood. I didn’t want to drag him through more of my loot until I was sure… and I am still unsure. It’s been one week.. it’s been harder than I anticipated. It’s been one week without his texts and his sweet messages and his “good night my love” ’s. I’m hurting. I’m in more pain apart from him than I was in it with him. I am still dealing with the same resurfaced wounds, but now without his arms to hold me in, to comfort me.
This vase has been broken. It’s been dropped many times. Each time I’ve carefully taped the vase back together, this time, although the vase hasn’t been dropped, old tape has been removed, one piece here and one piece there. The cracks are exposed and I’m left leaking out. When will the super glue come? Who will mend my broken places? Will I be restored, to be filled up and poured out… to truly receive love and to be able to give it all away? Maybe some day.