I miss hearing you tell me I am beautiful. You would tell me when I groggily woke up to you bashfully watching me. You would tell me when I got out of the shower and you would steal my towel making me chase you, dripping wet. You would tell me when I was in jeans, a t-shirt, glasses, and a dirty ponytail – stressed out in front of my computer. You would tell me on our walk to the car after a hot yoga class, my clothes seeping in sweat. You would tell me after I spent ninety-minutes getting ready for a date with you – in a new dress, fresh lipstick, high heels, and perfume. You would tell me when I would slip into something silk and lacy for you at the end of a long day. You would whisper it again as you stroke my cheek, playfully smack my behind, and then follow it up with a kiss that said it all over again, but without words. You would tell me when I was asleep and could only hear you through the echo of my dreams.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had
nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a
glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When
space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am
without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is
no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love.
That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of
the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same
time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of
pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an
offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
Showing posts with label space. Show all posts
Showing posts with label space. Show all posts
Uncontainable Love
Over the past week, I've learned that, surprisingly, I can live without you. It's a painful thing to type and a painful thing to feel. When you walked this earth as my counterpart, as my soul mate in the flesh, I did not think that I would be able to survive without you. I thought that if you left, I would crumple into a pile of dirt. Gone. Though I feel like a puddle, when I look in the mirror, my reflection looks back at me. I am still here. I am the same. I don't know how it is possible, but it is so.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
Love Waves
I believe that love hits space like radio waves.
The love of my parents is one frequency. They have a respectful and passionate love. It's a love that I've looked up to as an inspiration my whole life. They are patient and always considerate of one another. My dad tells my mother constantly that she gets more and more beautiful each day. He writes her love poems with rubber stamps and she decorates the mirror above her dresser with the collection. She has never once told him that he is a nauseating driver, she simply lets it be and trusts that she will arrive with her stomach whole. He gives her honest feedback about what he thinks of her outfits. She never lets him win at cards. They are supportive and active parents, working together to nurture children who treat themselves and others with respect and kindness. Their love is long-lasting, over thirty years and still growing. I imagine that my parents frequency of love soars high in the sky. It beams through the heavens alongside of other great loves.
Each partnership forms a distinct love wave. The love of my best friend, Aliyah, and her husband, Ben, is one. They are grounded in their love, they have much in common and are honest best friends to one another. The love of Natalia and Jaime is another frequency – a fresh love that is driven by spiritual growth and the throws of passion. The love of Lena and Corey is another. Their love began in middle school and continues to morph as they discover themselves – a love vested in common values, family, and tradition.
There are billions of different frequencies of love that broadcast through space with various rates. Some loves are high up in the heavens. Maybe these are the loves of great poets, spiritual love, and loves that are immortal. Maybe they are simply loves that just got it right. There are the loves that run closer to the earth, lower waves of love. Maybe these are animal partnerships, like two swans that mate for life because of evolution and survival. Maybe it's violent love that is not rooted in understanding, but instead in control. Maybe it's love between a girl with a broken heart and her dog, who has been there with her through it all because of an unexplainable bond and also a nylon leash.
The waves aren't necessarily a constant line. They can pulse, like an EKG reading if the relationship is tumultuous or driven by passion. They can angle up, like positive growth on the Cartesian Plane, if the love grows. They can fade off, like the hush at the end of a whisper, if the love dies.
I have tested my theory and discovered many of the waves of love I've cast out into the universe: some lower frequencies, mid-range frequencies, perhaps lustful higher frequencies that quickly disintegrate. But, I have only truly known physical love: such as the love that exists between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman who are also lovers, a pair of close friends, a boy and his pet. I have known love that dies – sometimes to a halting finish, sometimes to a low-level hush. I have known love that grows – like a bond that is no longer romantic love but turns to a stronger connection in a platonic status, or a friendship that through trauma and pain changes into something more inescapably connected. I have known high frequency love – our love.
While I can't compare our love wave to other great loves (and don't want to), I know it was the strongest love I have felt. It was full acceptance. It was patience. It was excitement. It was trust. It was encouragement. It was devotion. It was growth. It was passion. But all of these words and emotions I use to describe our love exist mainly in physical-form. For instance, I can't trust you now in the way that I did when you were alive. I can't experience passion with you now, unfortunately. How can I encourage you, when I don't know what I'm encouraging or if I'm encouraging anything at all.
Where does the wave go when the man dies but the love doesn't?
Does it rise up? Does it descend? Does it disappear slowly? Is it already gone? Am I foolishly chasing imaginary stardust? Does it become divine love? Are you whizzing around my head like a hell-bent fly as my a guardian angel? Does it become universal love? Am I opening up to the love of nature and what is, because of what is no longer? I don't know.
I do know that no love wave is the same. I will never rebuild what we had. While I hope it is still there, beaming through the heavens as an example for others, I know I will never feel it in this body again. It has changed with grief. It has altered as it's been transferred to the unconscious. But what we had when you were alive will be there as a guide for me someday – when I decide I want to love again or when someone decides they want to love me and I let it in. But our wave of love is irreplaceable and unique, and I desperately miss it more and more with each of sorrowful breath.
The love of my parents is one frequency. They have a respectful and passionate love. It's a love that I've looked up to as an inspiration my whole life. They are patient and always considerate of one another. My dad tells my mother constantly that she gets more and more beautiful each day. He writes her love poems with rubber stamps and she decorates the mirror above her dresser with the collection. She has never once told him that he is a nauseating driver, she simply lets it be and trusts that she will arrive with her stomach whole. He gives her honest feedback about what he thinks of her outfits. She never lets him win at cards. They are supportive and active parents, working together to nurture children who treat themselves and others with respect and kindness. Their love is long-lasting, over thirty years and still growing. I imagine that my parents frequency of love soars high in the sky. It beams through the heavens alongside of other great loves.
Each partnership forms a distinct love wave. The love of my best friend, Aliyah, and her husband, Ben, is one. They are grounded in their love, they have much in common and are honest best friends to one another. The love of Natalia and Jaime is another frequency – a fresh love that is driven by spiritual growth and the throws of passion. The love of Lena and Corey is another. Their love began in middle school and continues to morph as they discover themselves – a love vested in common values, family, and tradition.
There are billions of different frequencies of love that broadcast through space with various rates. Some loves are high up in the heavens. Maybe these are the loves of great poets, spiritual love, and loves that are immortal. Maybe they are simply loves that just got it right. There are the loves that run closer to the earth, lower waves of love. Maybe these are animal partnerships, like two swans that mate for life because of evolution and survival. Maybe it's violent love that is not rooted in understanding, but instead in control. Maybe it's love between a girl with a broken heart and her dog, who has been there with her through it all because of an unexplainable bond and also a nylon leash.
The waves aren't necessarily a constant line. They can pulse, like an EKG reading if the relationship is tumultuous or driven by passion. They can angle up, like positive growth on the Cartesian Plane, if the love grows. They can fade off, like the hush at the end of a whisper, if the love dies.
I have tested my theory and discovered many of the waves of love I've cast out into the universe: some lower frequencies, mid-range frequencies, perhaps lustful higher frequencies that quickly disintegrate. But, I have only truly known physical love: such as the love that exists between a man and a woman, a woman and a woman who are also lovers, a pair of close friends, a boy and his pet. I have known love that dies – sometimes to a halting finish, sometimes to a low-level hush. I have known love that grows – like a bond that is no longer romantic love but turns to a stronger connection in a platonic status, or a friendship that through trauma and pain changes into something more inescapably connected. I have known high frequency love – our love.
While I can't compare our love wave to other great loves (and don't want to), I know it was the strongest love I have felt. It was full acceptance. It was patience. It was excitement. It was trust. It was encouragement. It was devotion. It was growth. It was passion. But all of these words and emotions I use to describe our love exist mainly in physical-form. For instance, I can't trust you now in the way that I did when you were alive. I can't experience passion with you now, unfortunately. How can I encourage you, when I don't know what I'm encouraging or if I'm encouraging anything at all.
Where does the wave go when the man dies but the love doesn't?
Does it rise up? Does it descend? Does it disappear slowly? Is it already gone? Am I foolishly chasing imaginary stardust? Does it become divine love? Are you whizzing around my head like a hell-bent fly as my a guardian angel? Does it become universal love? Am I opening up to the love of nature and what is, because of what is no longer? I don't know.
I do know that no love wave is the same. I will never rebuild what we had. While I hope it is still there, beaming through the heavens as an example for others, I know I will never feel it in this body again. It has changed with grief. It has altered as it's been transferred to the unconscious. But what we had when you were alive will be there as a guide for me someday – when I decide I want to love again or when someone decides they want to love me and I let it in. But our wave of love is irreplaceable and unique, and I desperately miss it more and more with each of sorrowful breath.
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