Sometimes my heart strains toward you spreading so thin across the expanse between that it quivers like a tightly strung guitar string sending notes of anguish into all that empty space Reverberation of moth eaten memories stirring up stale dust in a long abandoned room as it echoes off the walls of aching lungs until I'm almost sure I should reach out for you The half formed fantom of a future grips my heart so suddenly in some moments that it feels worth risking anything for even certain humiliation and rejection But then the sharp, pinching recoil always returns to snap me out of my pathetic, forlorn reveries my hand is not worthy of even reaching a frenzy of hope can overcast the wretched truth I have no right to continue pining a don't deserve the bittersweet comfort of these carefully enshrined memories let alone the audacity of asking for more My lot now is to keep languishing moving inevitably away from a future that could have once been mine but was long ago forsaken My selfish heart keeps me from even the respite of one day forgetting pouring warm tears over ice cold memories I will be grateful for this aching
There are many reason I identify with polyamory primarily the science that explains it's our nature but also because it allows me to love again even though my love for you has never faded Monogamy proclaims I cannot love more than one in this model my life would have to be spent alone or else in a horrible, shameful sham of love because you will never again be mine to hold Polyamory is something I am able to practice quietly within my own heart the alter I still gently tend for you in my soul need not be torn down or take up all the space I can share my love with others without letting you go which is a true blessing because that's a choice I am unable to make The feelings I have for you are probably the best part of me and it would be a tragedy to discard them all together What a relief to be reassured there is no need for me to be alone just because you no longer love me while I will love you forever What a gift to get to keep you nestled close to my heart no matter what to never have to lose the vivid color of all that you still are to me
Why do you still seep through my subconscious and sour my dreams with your familiar scent? even when I finally feel sure I can let go your phantom reappears to pierce my heart Months of black void nights suddenly ended with blurry images and emotions on fire still razor sharp after all these years bleeding out onto my white sheets as I sleep Even the me inside my mind has grown weary of your semi-frequent infiltration last night I told you I wished you'd never have come back into my life at all Even so, there is something distracting about the way nothing else feels real after our unconscious encounters everything else becomes hollow For this reason some part of me still savors the sweet drops of pain you produce within me a reminder of the tender stirring I once felt inside a stark contrast to the silence that now smothers
Tea has been a re-occurring theme throughout my tangled life. My mother always preferred drinking tea to coffee. Her nervous nature simply couldn’t handle that much caffeine. Mornings filled with the fragrance of spices and herbs, clinking spoons, and tiny damp disposable bags.
Tea soaked wounds of my first broken heart remind me of moments of reluctant connection. It’s easy to wake up early when you’ve slept for over twenty four hours in the last two days. Dreams can only provide an escape for so long. When even that sanctuary is stolen from you, I learned that peace can be found in the slow ritual of sipping tea before sunrise. The begrudging silence between mother and daughter, the surrender of accepting help from someone you despise. Because you need her, and that hurts in its own strange way.
New love blossoms around a very different tea routine. Evenings after school, every day spent looking forward to this small, private heaven. Boiling water in the microwave and adding too much honey. The laughter we once shared when you finally admitted you couldn’t bear the way my overly sweetened tea made your lips sticky. Flirtatious frustration from the way you used to tease me for blowing on my drink before every sip instead of waiting for it to cool.
The soft haven found beneath the crumbling roof of your mother’s house. Her hovering hospitality of sharing joints with underaged teens, providing refreshments of my first teas made with milk. The strange, yet soothing smoothness of the subtle flavor. Savoring the mouth-watering smells of the best home-cooked dinners I’ve ever had being prepared in the next room.
All these years later, my heart can still rekindle those tender memories involuntarily as I sip my milky matcha. The most delicious ache, a powerful longing for a life that no longer exists. Beautiful lapping waves of private sorrow, never to be seen or shared. How can so much pleasure be found in such pathetic pining? Surely this secret clinging is a sickness, a delusion that corrodes all chance of a future. Even so, even so…