I probably do not need to tell you that this morning is really difficult. Like every other day in July, I woke up and felt your presence in my mind. But this was the first morning in a long string of mornings this summer where I could not freely reach out to you.
I suppose this is what love affairs used to be like, minus the secret blog, before texting, before telephones. We would have to steal glances at one another at the market. I’d find your notes written in thick blue ink pinned to my clothesline next to my my most immodest garments.
This—writing this— feels better than it felt waking up two hours ago. My heart ached and I cried and I said, “baby, I miss you,” out loud a lot. I cried and said “baby,” softly over and over. I know you feel that too. I know you do. It’s a deep and real pain.
I am just going to lean into it. I am going to do the opposite of what I’d have done back when I didn’t trust my capacity to take care of myself. I am going to stop asking you not to hurt me and stop asking you not to lie to me.
Instead, I am just going to accept that either are possibilities beyond my control. Because wanting you means wanting all of the things you might bring. And I want everything. Every drop. So I have to be open. I have to let go and submit to the fact that I can end up hurt. That you’re another person with autonomy and a will and a life to live.
Because this is not about me. It’s not mine. And I’m sure you know it’s not about you and it’s not yours. I know you know that. The love we make is ours.
And I’m not even sure if that’s the right way to put it either.
The love we make is love. It exists separately from us. We are its co-creators. We can’t really control it once it’s out there. We can nurture it and respect it and honor it and allow it to color our lives as we move about the world, whether together or apart.
There. That. That feels better. That makes sense. For better or worse, I’m the sort of person who likes to make sense of things. I think you can relate.
I don’t know where I would leave my notes to you if there were no internet. I think I would try to find some way to interweave them throughout your life. So finding them wouldn’t be eventful, but part and parcel of each day. Sort of like you said I used to appear in your dreams from time to time. Like wearing a pair of coveralls and rolling out from under a car like a mechanic.
That’s how my notes would be.
I know this has been a lot, but writing this morning has been helpful to me. If it does nothing else for you, I know you appreciate that. But I hope it helps you too.
I want to kiss your cheeks, your mouth, and feel your racing heart slow down. Because we are good. We are at the beginning of a long, old-fashioned love affair.