I lost my boyfriend. The boyfriend, a boyfriend. I’ve always hated that word, even moreso than girlfriend. There was lots of crying and all that, there was some calm, and there was some distance. When he came back from Germany, we decided to meet. It wasn’t to reconcile, or to work on something that was gone.
There is love, yes, and our story refuses an end.
The ease of dichotomy is not our luxury as we continue on a blurry trajectory.
This is why I’ll call it a second act. In our play that writes itself without our permission, I am feeling not comfortable, but meeting the face of it.
There is no farewell, but a kind of youth in revolt. A love without discipline, sort-of Kundera-esque. For now. It may end up pedestrian, but if I keep my concern on a fate then I give in to fear. The opposite. What once was.
We did the normal things. Met at the cafe. Walked in the anonymity of downtown. There were times of no talking, there was nostalgia. I asked him over to my apartment, and his agreement surprised me. It was unlike him. It was fearless. We sat uncomfortably, we took to the bed. I asked him if he wanted to stay the night and he stayed the night. It was childlike instead of childish.
I am a love without a plan.
There have been two days since that day, if we count this morning.
Today I’d like to go to Sutro Baths. If there would be any setting for reinvention of something beautiful, it would be those ruins aside the ocean.
I can’t live with a protected heart. Please do not try to convince me it’s better. I relish in this, my fault. It helps keep me alive. It meets my anxiety, or disease, and breaks up what I’d built with expectation.
I can make no recommendations, so I’ll just write what I see. But to be free from the purgatory of waiting for this thing or that thing to happen, I’m finding a quiet and soft place of adventure. A hatchling of definition maybe.