by
Qwriter
I know some of you will dismiss this because there is a "him" up in the mix. That's ok. Just know this: if you do dismiss Beautiful, it is because you do not really know love. Love has no gender. To make things clear, I was her choice. I simply did not step up to the plate...

I have a story to tell.
Cup you hands, I will pour myself into your heart. I have a story to tell.

I wanted something, something I for which I grieve. I lost it and did not even know it was gone, so subtle was the change. I did not have to have it in the traditional sense. She, after-all already has a wife. She loves her wife. I do understand that love. She loves her in spite of, because of (?) her quirks and tendency to be hard to live with.
I am being polite. She has suffered. That's her tale to tell...

I have a story to tell. Cup your hands. Open your heart. I have a story to tell.

I want like a love like hers. She has hungry skin. I could see it at the dance.

I saw her become plump and purring in his arms. It was about skin, which is deeper than sex, much deeper.

I had images of floating across her body doing our skin dance. It was not about body as much as it was about connecting, coming home to ourselves. It was not about sex, it was about comfort. I wanted to live inside that glow.

She's in my head. Now, she's in my dreams. I worry about her happiness. I wanted to be in her heart, like always, sliding across her body oiled and slick. No words, just breathe and skin, my skin breathing hers, taking her in scent, no sound.

I wanted to be in her heart, wanted to be her place of mutual comfort, a dry place on a rainy day, a cool place in the heat, warmth from the chill. I wanted to scratch her scalp, which has nothing to do with sex, is in fact better than sex.

I watched her plump up in his arms. His arms. "He loves me." She tells me this gently as though I don't love her skin, eyes, voice, hair follicles and pores. Yet, I am the one who overlooked her cues, her signals. I missed the depth of her
pain.

She became plump, succulent in other arms. And I have been discarded for being
Inattentive.
Negligent.
I plead guilty. I wonder if I could have done better had I known...

I know the sweetness of loves' love. Loves' love is deeper, wider, and bigger than
sex.

Loves' love is not about gender or genitals. I know this. Nothing turns me off faster than indiscriminate
sexualizing. My heart is not located between my legs.

She has become plump, juicy in the jazz of his poetry.

I am dizzy; want to fight, become gross, "You giving him?" She slides away from me trailing her fingers through my hand. This is not about sex or gender. This is about hungry skin & emotional intimacy. This hurts. "I was starving," she says this peacefully and my heart breaks 'cause I missed the signs of starving starvation. I was too busy with my own starvation, missed hers.

We could have fed each other. I thought that was what we were meant to do always. We are not supposed to have or keep one another. We don't own or possess. We are supposed to be each other's special place. I missed her cue, did not pick up on her
signals.

She was dying and I was coming back from
the dead.

I had not got back my third eye, the eye that views the soul, views life force, had been too ill, down in the valley, no excuses, just truth.

She needed me and I was absent, missing from myself even. I hurt her with my absence. That pains me more than her getting fed elsewhere...

Now I understand about last year, during the time of my nonexistence...

I watched her plump and moisten in his embrace, felt the kick in my gut.

The walls are closing in on me. I want to fight. I am supposed to do that for her, not him, not anyone but me. Only me. Emotional intimacy is a beautiful thing to behold, except of course if you face in pressed up against the glass.

I am supposed to feed my beloved. She was
starving.

I love her enough to be glad that she went and got herself fed. Skin hunger is killing and she is much too alive for that. I love her enough to be happy, impressed, that she decided to not suffer. She keeps telling me it is not about sex. That hurts me more. We weren't about sex either.

If she has to stress that, then maybe she does not know me after-all. OK.

We each belong to ourselves. We are hungry souls. We wanted to go to Beautiful, which is deeper than gender or genitals, deeper than who belongs to whom.

Her need was urgent, so much so that I, in my deficiency, have been discarded. I am
spinning with
pain.

Too many losses. Too many losses for us both. There is too much pain for either of us to go back to the beginning. What she does not understand is I too have suffered. I too have been on the edge, dizzy with loss, starving, fighting off dying dead. I cannot do that anymore. OK I give.

I cannot talk or listen to her right now. My eyes cannot look at her; better to go blind. I have been scrapped.
Junked.

I will walk with this, this junked feeling. I have been
Trashed.

OK. OK. Peace. OneLove. OK, I give. I will continue to live with an open heart. I will take loves' love where I find it. Right now, I am feeling, living with the hurt of Loves' love. I am lethargic.

I accept Loves' Love. Here is my criteria: Loves' love must be kind, forgiving and emotionally intimate, able to be vulnerable naked in my arms, able to say "Hold me now! I am breaking and I need you..."

There is nothing sexier than emotional honesty, the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Ok I give
OneLove

I wanted to be the ace in her pocket

I realize now, she needed
Me when she visited
Last year
&
I did not, could not (?) respond
My inability
Grieves
me
I wanted
to go to Beautiful
take
her there smell her skin
Taste her
Breath I LOVE YOU

More than I
want to be
the place where you
breathe
Somewhere between here
&
Beautiful


Epilogue:

She greets me in cyberspace, tells me she's sorry
she hurt me.
She is sorry I am hurting. Thanks, but no thanks.
Your dance was deliberate
And public.
I fucked up by being
Fucked up in private.

"Keep him," I tell her. He's been good to you.
Besides
I didn't, couldn't (?) step up.

A grenade
had been thrown into my life. I was distracted, meant no harm. No criticisms, no malice, no ill will. Just fact, some sorrow and a little healthy anger...

I need my little healthy angry. My little anger allows me to stand up. The pain knocks me down. I prefer to be on my feet.

You are supposed to take care of yourself. Me too. Thank you for sharing Loves' Love. Right now, the walls are closing in on me. Still, I'm on my way to
Beautiful.

THE END

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