Love Me, Maybe?
*This writing is dated from 2019
The man that I sleep with once a month argues that I’m perfect while he sips Malbec in the confines of a dark bar, sometimes in the confines of my dark apartment. He stares at me. I think he sees my soul and it freaks me out. The moment I met him, 4,380 days ago, I wondered “What kind of voodoo prince are you?” It was instant. I wanted to know this non-human human. I had to. I sensed he was beat as I was, even more so, but I also thought he was perfect.
When we stare at each other - stare is creepy and best reserved for murder mystery novels, right? Gaze is way too romantic and nothing about his gaze is romantic - neither is mine. We give one another creepy, I see into your soul, semi-lustful and uncomfortable look-stares. When I look-stare at him I wish I could tell him everything I need to but I can’t. I can’t wrap my circular sale price quiz game mind around him and the words he uses with me especially because when we’re together, most of the time, I’m drunk. I’ve been mean to him for telling me nice things and sleeping with me because he frustrates me by not sharing much about him. He’s not emotionally available, but maybe he will get there? I’ve known this man for 4,380 days and if he can say he thinks the world of me, surely he could have done more to show his care, but he never has. Our friend-sex-ship has faded in and out for 4,380. My thoughts and feelings come out in misdirected mean, drunk texts and his are jumbled, unclear and circular. Also, likely drunk.
I’ve never been in love, and I don’t think I’m in love with him. I can’t be in love with him because this isn’t what happens in romantic comedies and that’s my only gauge for understanding romantic love. When he lays next to me in bed or on the floor, he feels not even miles - but light years away - and he never stays the night. He only ever once stayed the night in bed and it made me happy, so happy I hardly slept because all I had on my mind was the possibility of him changing his mind. In the morning, after sex, I put on my pajama bottoms, the pink ones with the little orange print on them - and a soft gray off the shoulder sweater. At that moment, I was the star of my own romantic comedy - complete with a goodbye kiss on the forehead. I don’t know much, but I know my heart and I think I could love him in a twisted look-stare way. I often write things that I’m too scared to say out loud.
Do I love you? I don’t know? Maybe I don’t? Maybe I do? Is that what love is - 4,380 days of confusion, drunks texts and a big maybe?