"she's a pornographer's dream, he said.
I knew what he meant.
but it made me imagine: what kind of a dream
he would have, that hadn't been spent?
...wouldn't he dream of the thing that he never
could quite get the touch of?
it's out of his hands, over his head
out of his reach....he's dreaming of what might be."-Suzanne Vega
Mr. Vagina is more than a pussy.
He's fucked up.
I blame myself.
Partially.
I chose to get sucked into his vortex of chaos willingly.
I mistakenly thought the storm had subsided.
The Love Tragedy had ended.
But like an onion, that also incites tears, he is layered.
One biting layer after another.
If only someone would throw him in a frying pan, he'd caramelize and be a fucking treat.
But he's not cooked.
He's fucked up.
I already knew I needed to steer clear of him for awhile.
His behavior towards me has been so erratic it isn't good for either one of us.
I hate inconsistency.
And it can't be a picnic for him either to have no idea what the hell he wants.
Time tells.
Distance allows growth.
BUT I SUCK AT WAITING.
I kept processing things rapidly and convinced myself that if I was now at this new stage, he TOO must be right there with me.
(Which makes absolute NONsense considering we were NEVER on the same page at the same time any day of any week since we met).
I'm an epic fool.
So it was over, I reasoned.
Oh Vee Eee Argh Over.
Taylor Swift style.
And since that was so logically clear, I inferred we were ready and capable of being mere friends because unlike lovers of years past, Mr. Vagina had been my friend more than anything else.
I missed his companionship.
I missed talking about nothing.
I was painfully lonely.
So I reached out one sunny day and he was right there.
And we walked around the city and danced with the cherry blossoms and sipped iced coffee.
And for the first time since we frenched, I felt content with what he was willing to give me instead of longing for what he wouldn't.
I felt so happy.
And we spent the next week talking.
Being friends.
Nothing weird.
Nothing implied.
Just ....interacting.
He invited me to food cart.
He took an extra long lunch just to walk with me.
He sent me a song.
Late at night, laying in bed, thinking of me.
He sent the song with the lyrics above.
I didn't know what he meant.
I didn't know what to think.
But I thought maybe he just missed me in his bed.
Lord knows I missed being there.
So we flirted.
And one night he REALLY flirted.
I mean, my oh my.
Naughty little boy.
But nothing happened.
It was just implied that something could.
That something would.
Soon.
And the next day when we talked and I told him about the birthday party that night he told me he couldn't make it.
HE HAD A DATE.
The man who had to be single right now had a date.
And what the hell was with the amorous texts of the eves prior?
'That is NOT going to be happening,' he condescended.
But....
I.....
How....
WHAT??!!
Was I a token in some fucked up game orchestrated by a little boy with too much time on his hands?
Let's make the girl who loves me think I care, just enough to stroke my cracked ego.
SO I CAN FEEL LIKE A MAN.
Brilliant.
Classic.
Loving behavior.
Oh spite.
Oh hell.
I am fortune's fool.
But in a perverse twist of tears, needed.
Because I will have no desire to reach out to him again.
He took my love goggles and he shattered them with a hammer.
It took me fucking long enough.
And it took a mere handful of days for him to contact me again.
But there are no words left for me to say.
We need a new word for over.
I'm out of his hands.
Over his head.
Out of his reach.
And he can dream of what will never be.
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