They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.
Lately, on rambling cross-London train journeys squished in by the limbs and briefcases and small and fierce dreams of other commuters I find myself wondering away from myself. Trawling pathways of memory, winding staircases of sweetness and regret. Longing, as I do so, to touch the bodies of my old lovers. Run my fingers against shoulderblades, underneath shirt collars. Yearning to sink into them, revisit them like the pages of a favourite book lost long ago.
My longing is largely abstract. I spend so much of my time defined and constrained and buoyed by motherhood and cosy domesticity. Running the gauntlet of dinner-bathtime-bedtime while the hours speed by like the track of a treadmill. Their pace does not leave much time for thinking and reminiscing. Some evenings Z and I are so exhausted that the closest we come to intimacy is to sleep on the sofa in each other's arms, failing to watch the film that's playing. If I found out Z was having an affair, I believe that after shock and before anger my strongest emotion would be admiration for his stamina and scheduling know-how.
I have no intent of being unfaithful. After all, getting laid is easy but falling repeatedly in love with the same person requires sustained effort and I've always liked a challenge. But all the same, on train journeys as my routined and responsible life falls away with every mile I find another self stretching. Sinuous and loose-limbed, restless as a tiger in a cage.
A yearning, as winter draws in, as the veil between worlds thins, to create new worlds and revisit the old. Write their names in mist, in sand, in smoke. What was loved. What was lost. And who.
My longing is largely abstract. I spend so much of my time defined and constrained and buoyed by motherhood and cosy domesticity. Running the gauntlet of dinner-bathtime-bedtime while the hours speed by like the track of a treadmill. Their pace does not leave much time for thinking and reminiscing. Some evenings Z and I are so exhausted that the closest we come to intimacy is to sleep on the sofa in each other's arms, failing to watch the film that's playing. If I found out Z was having an affair, I believe that after shock and before anger my strongest emotion would be admiration for his stamina and scheduling know-how.
I have no intent of being unfaithful. After all, getting laid is easy but falling repeatedly in love with the same person requires sustained effort and I've always liked a challenge. But all the same, on train journeys as my routined and responsible life falls away with every mile I find another self stretching. Sinuous and loose-limbed, restless as a tiger in a cage.
A yearning, as winter draws in, as the veil between worlds thins, to create new worlds and revisit the old. Write their names in mist, in sand, in smoke. What was loved. What was lost. And who.