Love At First Fight

What sucks the most about finding love is losing it. I know I should be thinking the better-to-have-had-than-never-had-at-all kind of thoughts, but in either case, I still end up all by myself. At least in the latter I wouldn't have to live with the memory of what his curly, pressed hair would look like in the morning, or how the inner part of his knee would taste after a sweaty make out session. No, I think it's always better to live in a constant state of apathetic ignorance. That is, not knowing you don't care and not caring about those you do not know, or never did.

I remember reading on his blog a discussion on the notion of finding a soulmate, an instant connection between two strange people, chemically, physically, mentally and perhaps emotionally charged to fit just so, that no other could capablely compare. I think it was the dark specks of brown in his eyes that warned me of this static. But, regardless, I allowed his energy to consume me. And now I'm stuck playing out the role of a Better-To-Have-Had for the rest of my life.

It's funny, when I think back to how little I knew then, and how great the distance between want and need would soon become. Somewhere along the line, I figured out if I shoved the one I longed for far enough away, the desire to be with him would deepen, the need to be near him narrow, and the want to wake up wearing his favorite t-shirt would consume me wholeheartedly. I would push him out and pass him off. I would reject, deject and object to any notion he could feel remotely similar. For when all was said and done, or unsaid, or undone, it felt that much better when he'd come back for more.

'Cept, he stopped coming. Then he stopped calling. Then I started crying. And comparing and contrasting, and complaining and computing how calculated and cold I could become before he realized our first fight was also our last.

How many times have you been in love they ask. How many times, indeed. I wonder if they mean with the same guy. Then, twice. Once when our mouths first parted, and again when he first departed.

I'm pretty sure you won't remember it like that. But I recall every detail. The last goofy smile. That last dumb laugh. The light patch of hair on your inner thighs, and your eyes, the way they would roll forward then back again when I ran my hands over it for the last time. I remember almost passing out, from all that breathing. Oh, that breathing. I might just miss that the most.

There's no real way to end this. No creative conclusion, no poignant proverb or simple simile, no meaty metaphor or double-meaning double entendre that captures just how lasting your effect has been. Translation: I love you, you fucked me up, and now it's impossible to become purely apathetic when I'm really just pathetic, painfully hooked still on a feeling from a fight that happened for just one of us, years ago when I was young and you more so, when we were scared, me mostly more so, when I was desperate and destined to derail the dance between your electrons and my neurons, your beads of sweat and my furrowed brow, your moving on and my never willing or able to do so...

But it's time, now. Now it's time. The CD's over, as is the moon's grip on the night sky and frankly, of you and of me, you and I both still don't know BLEEP. Look at that, a punitive pun. There may just be some hope for me after all.