To every last one of you that
lured my reluctant heart out
from a place of no danger.
Every one of you
that sweet-talked your way
through cracks in my resistance
with your pretty notions of always.
You, who coaxed down my walls;
took a sledgehammer to the
only defence I could muster
with promises of love in spite
of all of me.
To every last one of you
that encouraged me to want
for something beyond my reach –
who made me believe it
was all possible;
had me hooked,
then walked away like it was nothing at all –
like I was nothing at all.
Like you didn’t owe me a damn thing…
Fuck you for that.
When I said ‘I want you’, what I meant was this:
I want early mornings that bleed into hazy afternoons where time doesn’t exist. I want sandwiches on the grass in my lunch break. I want Saturdays and supermarkets and incredulity that I buy my mango already chopped. I want late nights and hotel bars with tumblers of Old Fashioned, hot in our throats. I want breakfast in Paris, or breakfast on a Sunday or arguments about not fucking eating breakfast. I want to slow dance, with wine thick in our veins. I want pillow talk. I want the truth. I want you to tell me all of the things you think I don’t want to know. I want to laugh at bad movies and to read aloud to you. I want to fall in love with your words but still correct your grammar. I want in-jokes and your attempts at a northern accent. I want to try the food you ordered, because you always make the better choice. I want to learn to speak Italian and how to cook pasta with you. I want bank holiday Mondays. And Cinco de Mayos – I want a diary full of anniversaries of the first moments we share. I want to wake up, realising we fell asleep holding hands again. I want one dessert and two forks, although one will do. I want to know what you want before you know. I want you to know me that way too. I want your words and your trust and your silence. I want to explore with you; to get lost with you. I want to protect you. I want love without limits that blurs the boundaries of our very souls; one that moves us through time. I want your body on mine; to know you with an intimacy we can hardly conceive. I want to be all the things you need. I want ‘everyday’. I want every day. I want family. I want a place to belong. I want to be the one you come home to. I want you to hear what I really say, when fear stifles my words. I want you to see my walls are to protect myself, not to keep you out. I want you to help me take them down, brick-by-brick. I want our love to be as necessary yet instinctive as breathing.
I want you. What part of that wasn’t I clear about?
The space between what we said and what we meant was far greater than the miles that kept you from my bed.
Mine isn’t the type that takes you under. This pain is not the sort that’ll eat you alive – the all-consuming, coeur fou.
It’s not that kind of pain, because it wasn’t that kind of love. No, mine is constant; the sort of pain that sits behind your ribs.
It waits patiently for a moment to catch you unaware; to remind you it never left. It has a dullness, a darkness, to its ache.
In the background and in the spaces between seconds, making itself known.
that I am still on my feet.
that I never forget it’s there.
It churns, perpetually away in the pit of my gut and every now and again, it crawls up into my throat and tries to choke me.
I wish it would –
I wish it would take me or leave me.
But it never does.
It never will.
It’s not that kind of pain.
It wasn’t that kind of love.
– Kellie Wilson