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January 15, 2006

A letter to my husband - 1

June 07, 2006 12:34 AM EDT (Updated: July 06, 2006 10:01 AM EDT)

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There's so much to say, so little we've said.

We do not talk, you and I. There's that hush, that chill that surrounds the air we breathe; it used to be different, long ago.

I could start by saying I hate you, but that isn't quite true.

Hate is not the opposite of love; I still love what we had. I wish for peace between us, that much I can say.

Remember when we woke and I wrote these words?

A savage poetry
Tendresse
Metamorphosis

I was convinced then that what we had was real; it was real. That much I know.

Nights of convoluted bodies, spaces explored; what was real was the emptiness we filled, all night, all weekend, those long kisses of tongues thrust into one another into the throats of our souls.

I'd never experienced anything like it; sure, I'd experienced love and that was real; but this time was different; simply, this was new.

Now, this love seems old, the touch, shiver, caress and full-body embrace no longer makes me quiver, moisten or yearn; I'm dead to my feelings for you; that is true, for you, too.

Still, three years ago, when like lovers we touched and snuck to your office, the kiss seemed like first-time, I knew then we'd never die, but stay somewhere locked up in each other's hearts.

Those moments now seem like letters never opened, sealing wax still sealed, yet crusted, almost broken.

But this new hiss in your voice, your stare, your anger is too much for me; I am not holding you back; it is you who holds yourself back, just as I do the same.

We thought we'd invented love, the lust that was more than lust; I could feel your breath upon my neck as you grazed my body with your member and I sunk into pleasure; we never could avoid each other, so much trouble we got ourselves into; and still we yearned for more.

I'd searched for someone just like you, I thought; the poet in me seeks an avenue that few can fill; I thought in you, I'd found it.

Truly, it was in me I'd found myself. You have found yourself and neither the twain do meet.

I used to wonder what happened after we'd made love more than 1,000 nights.

Did it all disappear in a vapor of taste-memories?

Did we know each other too well, explore the crevices and suck the juices from each other's souls so much so that there were no new spaces, crevices, tastes left?

I wonder about that.

I think more it was reality that sunk our love.

Day-to-day finances, your world and how you were raised versus my world and how I was raised.

Your father was dominant; my mother was dominant. Your mother did everything; my mother made us help with everything.

I hearken back to early days when I'd write a postcard in calligraphy and flowers, and mail it to you.

Meet me
Friday, 7 p.m.
Dark table
Corner by the philodendron
Garter is yours
Your lap kitten

And you'd be beside yourself with joy, foaming at the mouth.

It was there I knew I had you; but power does not speak of love; love does not speak of power.

As we round the corner into another year, we wonder where our love went.

It went to our differences, those problems we knew one day would cast shadows longer than our lust.

Note: This is fiction;