I like to think it all started with Texas. The concreteness of placing the blame smack dab within the confines of a static border, physical proof of the legendary ground zero. Texas, however, is simply a point in time- a placeholder in this calendar that is my life.
In every sense of the word, we were in love. Our hearts were entwined like no others. Everyday was glorious, every night torn with the desire not to miss a single moment as sleep overtook us. It was like no other before, and unlike anything else that could possibly come to be.
I hung the moon for her while she latched onto every word I spoke. I savored every breath she took in complete awe of what an incredible woman she was. Every day, every hour, every moment was an adventure of the heart, the mind and the soul. She made me feel appreciated, loved. I made her feel sexy, intelligent, mysterious.
So how is it that now most days are spent in the bitter despair of hopelessness?
We seem to have grown comfortable with each other and our lives over the years. Yet, while my love has not faltered, hers has lapsed into an almost loathing of my very existence. I see it daily - the physical antipathy each time I try to hug her, the bothersome look when I tell her I love her, or her forced response to the latter. The total communication breakdown of what once was an open book.
Perhaps It’s the realization that, through whatever vail was placed around us in the beginning, she now sees that I am just a human being. Like everything else in my life, a mediocre one at that.
I’m still deluded by the arbitrary “I love you” uttered sporadically here and there. However, It becomes increasingly harder to give credence to the words. Instead, I’m filled with a deep sadness, knowing my love is undesirable, almost reprehensible.
How I long to show my affection and have it returned. To see that gleam in her eyes when she thinks of me. To know she is feeling the same as I, the rapture of overflowing love and appreciation for the beauty that is her essence.
Instead, I’ve succumbed to the realization that what once was, is no more. The light in her eyes has all but dimmed, the passion we shared gone by the wayside.
My last try at expressing these feelings became just another nightmare. Her response was so unfathomable, calculated and cold. It made me realize the futility of my vulnerable attempts at communication that used to flow so freely between us. If there was any doubt that her love for me had died, it was squelched at that moment.
The spirited love we once shared is now reduced to holding hands and the obligatory “I love you” before bedtime. Touch gets brushed aside, while impassioned words are frowned upon. Intimate subjects are ignored, while discussion of any of the above is met with cold and calculated sarcasm.
Try as I may to keep my distance, a simple kind word or a carefree smile and I find myself yearning to hug her, to hold her, to tell her how deep my love is for her. I know the devastation that will follow such a reckless act. It will drag me into an emotional abyss so black that I have to bite my tongue and turn away.
As dramatic as this all sounds, that is how extensive the pain is. The nonchalant manner in which these rejections are handed out perplexes me to no end. How she can act as if nothing has changed is beyond my comprehension.
The reason I stay is simple. I’m in love, and can’t imagine my life without her. It’s not fear, as my fear of loneliness is trivial. I’ve spent so much time alone, there is a sense of macabre comfort there. Whether you choose the “lonely artist” or the “psychologically dependent, inept spouse” terminology, it matters not.
Where once there was intense passion, I now settle for a smile on a sunny day, or the chance to hear her laugh for no apparent reason.
Often, thoughts of death wrap me like a warm blanket on a cold winters day, but I fear that fate is not for me. My fate is to conceal my pain, offering instead my unrequited love.
My feelings of love I will keep to myself. I’ve relinquished the notion that I can force her to love me once more, or that I will ever know what caused her to stop loving. Instead, I try to relish what she has given me in my life, up until the time when her love for me faded into obscurity..
How I yearn to tell her all these things, to open myself to her. To send this letter with a dozen white roses and the desire for passion’s return. Alas, I would be met with a fierceness I am no longer strong enough to bear. Accusations of blame would abound, Words that cut too deep to survive would slice through my fragile psyche, and I would be left bruised and battered beyond the point of return.
With a single kiss she can send my head reeling, my heart pounding. The mental vision of her love returning with the intensity and passion that was once there fills my fantasies. Unfortunately, I am short on fantasies these days. Rather, my life is spent mostly in a truly dark and painful suspension, with no where to go and little hope of the love I once felt from her returning...
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