Something is happening inside. I feel the weight of depression lifting and sense of clarity starting to shine through. It’s only a tiny ray of light but as small as it is, I can see it. And I can smile a little easier.
She asked me to live with her again but this time it was without angst, without pressure. I believe her want and desire are simply out of love for me. The desire to be with me. The wanting to share our lives together. No hidden agenda. No need to control. Love is guiding her. I saw it in her eyes and I heard it in her voice. I really don’t think I am wrong.
I hope I’m not.
This time she said she would understand if I said no. That she would not be angry and there would be no drama. But I will live with her one day, she says. P for persistent I say back. The idea is not as frightening to me now as it was first time she asked.
I don’t know if I will say yes, but no is not so readily available on my lips.
She wants us to have a history together. A time in this lifetime that we can call our own. We have a history now but it’s not a good one. Too tumultuous, too painful, too abrupt. Brief moments of bliss. They are what hold us together, but far too many hurts to make it pleasant and memorable. I don’t like our history. I wish I could rewrite it. I can’t. But… A new beginning? Is that really even possible?
She showed me photos of a trip she had taken with another lover to New Orleans. I am always jealous of her past and those other women. Damn lesbians. Fickle, fucking, fighting, flirting, loving, laughing, leaving. It’s hard not to be jealous of all that passion. I don’t like that she has shared hers with so many others. It makes me feel unimportant, I think. Just another notch. Sigh. Have I become so possessive that the idea of her making love to another woman makes me…fuck, what does it make me? I can’t even give it a name. It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s already happened and that it was long before me? I am insane.
She told me once that when she touches me it’s as if I am new. As if no-one has ever touched me before her. As though hers are the only hands that have traveled my body, hers the only lips that have kissed my lips. I like that. I like being possessed by her. I am new in her arms. My body responds to her as if she were its maker, recognizing ever nuance, every heated or gentle brush across my skin. And she is right. With her I am new.
I feel the shift.
I am trying to let go of the fear.
I am cresting…