Stephen
It's three days later and a small part of you still clings to me. Your words ring in my ears, your face burned into my memory.
I'm full of you, less of myself.

Over the years, the story stubbornly remains the same: we meet, speak of old times, drink each other in across the table of some random, quiet restaurant. The catching up, what he's doing, what she's doing. Idle chatter. I tell him another one of my self-depricating stories, making him chuckle, summoning laugh lines I caressed in another life. The bittersweet parting, replete with promises of calls and emails tossed breezily about amidst hugs, the final physicality.

I'm constantly amazed at the range of emotions I experience every time I'm lucky enough to sneak a face-to-face encounter with him. Remnants of raging teenage hormones seep through my pores from within, the younger me struggling to capture just a few more stolen moments with the love of her young life. I really miss that girl.

He is my heroin. I can't resist another hit, regardless of the fact I know full well of the hangover and withdrawl I will endure after such a short, sweet time. The ratio of pleasure to pain grows, out of control, against me as the years pass.

Life isn't fair.

(If you find one that's fair, sign me up.)

We should have ended up together, had babies together,
grown old together.

Should have, would have, could have.

Our infrequent meetings burn those words into my exposed flesh, reminding me again and again and again, like the lashes of a whip that fate can be cruel.

As the weeks pass, so shall the moment I stepped out of myself fade.
Back to the Me in The Now, back to familiar routines. At this moment, however, I revel in the pain, the loss, choosing to still feel something (anything) passionately for the man I continue to love.

Oh God, this ache.

Posted at 10:53 a.m.