I wonder sometimes what happened to him. He was sweet, gallant, anxious, more than a little insecure. He was the sort of man who was never without a monogrammed handkerchief.
I was so broken when we met, I couldn’t conceive of what it all meant. Other than dressing up and meeting for supper was more fun that being pyjama clad and drinking alone on a Saturday night. He sent flowers, brought champagne. He took me to French movies at a private cinema. He wooed me. We drank bottles and bottles of wine, engaged in long winded debates, survived on coffee and well-worded wry emails. It felt like a French movie. I see-sawed from sinking unthinking into the abyss he offered, to needing to claw myself back into consciousness and to rebel against his adoration. Seeing myself through his eyes felt hyper-real. It wasn’t me he saw but an idealised, fantasy me. I could never live up to her. I didn’t even know who the fuck she was. It became too much. He felt too much too soon. The pedestal was too narrow and confining and I felt suffocated. Clung to. Undeserving.
So I just stopped. I cut him off. He tried for weeks to get in touch, once showing up on our doorstep. Noshy made him coffee and talked to him for an hour before he left. And all the while I sat on the top stair listening to him speak of this woman he loved. Would love, he claimed, forever. I felt like a stranger in my own life. Had it really only been two months? How could that be me?
I remember jotting this poem down in the back of my journal but not typing it out. Though I must have. The nomenclature of my laptop filling system is somewhat whimsical. Things go missing. And today while looking for something else I found a file titled simply with his first name:
Be it four days or forever,
Lover, let me in.
Let me quench thirst, draw heat, sleep deep, and sing
at this fire.
Let me fall into something soft and sweet as morphine
where I forget frayed words
and the fractures on my heart.
Let me come home.
And when I leave,
through volition or circumstance,
place me fondly in some distant orbit,
as to you
I become
pressed flowers,
a wet sheet,
old poetry
wearing thin,
a faint star
exploding from afar ~ 25/04/05
Comments
you never cease to amaze me.
All based on the words you've written that I read on this interwebby thing, I could easily fall in love with you within a couple of months.
No man has ever felt like that about me.
you lady are so amazing. i bow to your wordliness (is that even a word? it is now!)
sas, that's beautiful.you're beautifulxo
And I bow to your use of language to express the inexpressible. I must overcome my feeble attempts at comments in order to join this exalted company. Wow.
For someone who once poked fun at poetry on blogs (but immediately rescinded it!), this is some pretty fucking incredible poetry on a blog.I love you. And this.
Lovely poem. So much feeling, so few words. Poor guy…?Spot
i had a similar experience with a guy once. he told me he loved me a year after the mere two months we dated, and i remember thinking, 'you dont even know who i am'. i was not myself with him…i worked out regularly, i stayed in on saturday nights, i felt myself talking about politics instead of tv shows. but what did he see , i wonder, that made him think he loved "me"? the me i had never been before nor have seen since. i love your blog.
I let a man like that love me, wholly, totally, completely… before I could understand it.Turns out, he's a heck of a chef and most excellent kayaker, too.I married him.
your writing is really superb.
Super lovely, Lovely.
Oh girl! Such an amazing post. Deep.It is so easy to get caught up and loose ourselves.
Beautiful. It stayed with me since the first reading. Had to come back and see if it really was that powerful.It was, of course.
You're so bloody awesome, it almost sucks, lol.
That's hauntingly beautiful. Thank you.