(no subject)
Break ups, I feel, are aptly named because no matter how amicably you carry the thing off, there's always something of a broken feeling that cuts through the thickest swathing (numbness, assurance, decisiveness). I know that breaking up with the Salsero was the right thing to do. I feel lighter and less fraught. And yet, I also feel like something inside me has snapped. Some obscure and unnameable bone. Despite my best intentions, I miss him.
There is something, after all, in knowing how you fit against another person's body. You take the time to learn where your head settles, how many inches below his clavicle, and you come to anticipate the stretch of skin his arm occupies when it reaches down your back and around your waist. You memorize the little insignificant touches, the ones that comfort you with their consistency and predictability. And then, quite suddenly, you've ended things and that intimacy is banished.
It leaves quite an empty space.
And there are the conversations that perhaps don't even feel any different. The telephone calls that play with your instincts. The familiarity. The lingering temptation to try again. The mad urge to change things, to fix it, to find a way to make it work- (how do I make love stay?)...
I think what echoes in me about this one in particular is that he was such a boy. A true Peter Pan, "(yes I am still looking into the dreams of that child, manipulating them, trying to recover some lost humanity in the process)," and free in ways that none of the people I've been with before have ever been or could even imagine being. Unburdened by the hyena that is higher education. He jumped out of airplanes. One would swear he could fly. And I think to myself, what the hell Tony Tost?
"My voice carries...It will carry you."
There is something, after all, in knowing how you fit against another person's body. You take the time to learn where your head settles, how many inches below his clavicle, and you come to anticipate the stretch of skin his arm occupies when it reaches down your back and around your waist. You memorize the little insignificant touches, the ones that comfort you with their consistency and predictability. And then, quite suddenly, you've ended things and that intimacy is banished.
It leaves quite an empty space.
And there are the conversations that perhaps don't even feel any different. The telephone calls that play with your instincts. The familiarity. The lingering temptation to try again. The mad urge to change things, to fix it, to find a way to make it work- (how do I make love stay?)...
I think what echoes in me about this one in particular is that he was such a boy. A true Peter Pan, "(yes I am still looking into the dreams of that child, manipulating them, trying to recover some lost humanity in the process)," and free in ways that none of the people I've been with before have ever been or could even imagine being. Unburdened by the hyena that is higher education. He jumped out of airplanes. One would swear he could fly. And I think to myself, what the hell Tony Tost?
"My voice carries...It will carry you."