Tag: love

  • Trust

    This post is for my first love, and the one who started this whole journey in me.

    On here, I’ll call you C.

    You were my ground zero, my heart’s beginning.

    We were so young when we met, I was sixteen, you seventeen.

    I remember the first time I saw you, at lunchtime in the quad.

    So charismatic and charming.

    Something in me noticed your fire, your spark, your intensity.

    In a sea of kids I’d known most of my life, you were a new transfer.

    You noticed me too.

    I don’t really remember how we first connected, a mutual friend I think.

    Somehow you got my number, and you called…

    A lot.

    I’d never been pursued before, and it was both intimidating and exhilarating.

    Of course, I saw you as a friend at first.

    I was so shy and guarded with boys, but it had never occurred to me that I could fall for another girl.

    Until you.

    And fall I did, so hard.

    We were suddenly inseparable, spending every moment we could together.

    But it was a different time.

    And even once we realized we were in love, we didn’t tell people.

    It was beautiful, but also hard.

    You were in the midst of deep grief and trauma.

    And came from a different background than I did.

    Your family was more conservative than mine.

    You weren’t ready to really embody your whole self yet.

    So we held our love quietly.

    I only told my best friend, and she kept our secret like a vault.

    I hated hiding it like that.

    I remember wanting to go to prom with you so badly, but you just couldn’t do it.

    So I went with a boy, and cried in the bathroom the whole time because I just wanted to be there with you.

    I made him drive me to your house after, instead of going to the after parties.

    I showed up late at your front door in my big princess dress, and we made love all night.

    After we graduated, we both went to colleges that were close enough for us to see each other frequently.

    We were finally out by then, but now we had to navigate being long distance.

    And it was still hard.

    Eventually, too hard.

    You had an affair, and broke my heart.

    I thought I’d never talk to you again.

    Couldn’t imagine ever trusting you enough to even be friends.

    Two decades went by, and I rarely thought of you.

    Then mom died.

    I had spent ten years caring for dad, watching him fade slowly and walking with him through death.

    Then mom too.

    Three days after she passed, I was sitting on my back porch in the evening.

    I’d felt her presence really strongly in those days, seen images of her young and free in all her favorite places.

    That night I heard a message come through.

    It’s time to reach out to her, it said.

    It didn’t clarify who she was, but I knew immediately.

    It was you.

    I couldn’t understand why my mom wanted me to contact you, out of the blue, after all that time.

    It made no sense to me, but who was I to question such a message?

    So I did.

    On instagram.

    You replied right away.

    Expressing your condolences for my mom.

    Then it came.

    A long, heartfelt apology for how it had ended between us.

    I had let go of ever hearing it, hadn’t been waiting for it or needing it.

    But damn, it felt good to read your words.

    It unlocked something in me, feelings I’d buried so long ago.

    All the love I realized I still had for you.

    So we started messaging, and then talking on the phone.

    Then we saw each other.

    As our eyes connected after all that time, my breath caught in my chest.

    Some part of me knew, immediately, I was in deep.

    We fell back in love, hard and fast.

    It was beautiful, and brutal.

    I was in deep grief, so vulnerable and open.

    And it felt like you’d been waiting twenty years for a second chance with me.

    It was really hard to tell my husband, I felt so ashamed and guilty.

    How could I love you like this when I loved him with all my heart?

    It didn’t make any sense to me then.

    I had never considered I had the capacity to love more than one person like that.

    We tried our best to navigate it all for a while.

    Me, you, him.

    But it was especially difficult for you.

    It had been so many years, but your trauma was still with you.

    And it was just too much, with me being married.

    You’d always be wanting more, you said.

    And you had your own demons you were still wrestling with.

    You just couldn’t do it.

    I understood, but it broke my heart all over again.

    We tried to be friends for a while, but it was too painful for me.

    I was still so in love with you, and every time we talked it hurt.

    So we stopped.

    It’s been almost a year now since we reconnected, and we’re talking again.

    I haven’t seen you since last summer, when we kissed.

    Though it feels like yesterday.

    Do you remember?

    I cried at first.

    Partly because it was the first time I’d kissed anyone besides my husband in eighteen years.

    Partly because it had been over twenty years since our lips had touched, and my whole body felt the force of it.

    You held me and wiped my tears, and then we made out for hours in your truck.

    Just tasting and touching each other, remembering who we once were and rediscovering who we are now all at once.

    This week, I’ll see you again.

    I’m going to visit you.

    So much has happened since that kiss.

    So many months of heartache and letting go.

    I’ve moved through my grief for my mom, the big waves of it anyway.

    I’ve realized I’m poly, and started dating.

    I’ve slept with other people.

    We went months without hearing each other’s voices.

    What will it be like now?

    I’m still in love with you, but it sits inside me differently.

    I feel like I can hold my love for you without it consuming me.

    In connecting with new lovers, I’ve learned a lot about how to care deeply for someone without being too attached to them.

    I wonder, can I do that with you?

    Will everything I’ve cultivated in myself on this journey translate to us?

    Will we connect as friends, or something more?

    Will I be okay with either?

    I’m not sure, but the only way I’ll know is to see you.

    Maybe now you’re ready, to let me in, to let me love you.

    Or maybe it will just still be…

    Too hard.

    I’m trying to prepare my heart for both options.

    Trying to hold my love for you in a way that doesn’t create any expectations or desired outcomes.

    I’m not sure I’m succeeding, but I’m trying.

    I know now, I’ve always been in love with you.

    All that time, and this whole year, I’ve never stopped.

    I know now, I’m always going to be in love with you.

    I think I’ve made peace with it, regardless of whether I can act on those feelings.

    I know they’ll always be there.

    I hope I can feel them and still have you in my life.

    I’ve really missed you.

    All that time we weren’t talking.

    And these last months of space too.

    I’m trusting that this will all work out how it is meant to.

    That we will find our way, love.

    I don’t know yet what kind of relationship will be best for us.

    But I’m trying to just have faith.

    To trust you, and even more…

    To trust me.

  • Chosen

    Dear One,

    I thought this would be a love letter.

    I’d been writing it in my head for a few days now.

    Things I’ve been loving about you lately.

    How you held my hand again the last time I saw you.

    Your excitement to hear about my dating life and my professional growth and how you loved my new turquoise underwear.

    The way I’ve been feeling us moving closer together.

    But tonight, your text made me small and insignificant.

    I wonder, have I made it all up in my head?

    The intimacy I felt growing between us, since the first time we met.

    Am I actually just a convenient and accommodating fuck?

    Maybe I’m just someone who bends to your needs and doesn’t ask for more.

    Every three weeks or so I get a message from you, asking how I’ve been.

    I respond pretty minimally because I’ve learned that’s more comfortable for you.

    Then you ask if I’d like to get together soon, and offer one or two times that work for you.

    Up until now, I’ve always been able to make it work.

    It’s been easy.

    This time, you only offered one night and I can’t do it.

    My monthly women’s circle is meeting and it’s my turn to lead.

    I even considered canceling just so I could see you.

    But I caught myself, remembering who I am and how important this is to me.

    So I offered four other nights in the next week and a half that I could see you.

    You took two days to reply.

    Only to ask if you could let me know the next day.

    When I heard from you tonight, you told me none of them worked.

    I had also suggested the following week, and so you asked if we could meet then.

    Maybe it’s silly.

    But it just made me pause and sit with how you make me feel.

    Like, really and truly.

    I’m snuggled under a blanket on my back porch as the sun sets, and I wonder silently if any of this is actually making me feel good.

    Am I learning and growing with you?

    Am I feeling valued and respected and honored?

    Am I really content with the level of emotional intimacy you can offer, or have I just been telling myself I am?

    I don’t know the particular details around why you couldn’t see me.

    Maybe it was circumstances outside your control.

    But I can’t help feeling like I wasn’t chosen, or prioritized.

    And it’s not that you’ve done anything wrong or unreasonable, I know that rationally.

    It just made me feel like I’m not someone you can’t wait to see again.

    And maybe I’m not.

    How do I hold that possibility?

    I’m not sure I’m okay with it.

    If I’m going to share my heart, my energy, my time with someone…

    I want to feel like they treasure it.

    I don’t think I need you to be in love with me.

    But I do want you to like me.

    I do want to feel like you’re looking forward to seeing me in between our meetups.

    That you think of me from time to time, and moments we’ve spent together are fond memories that cross your mind.

    I’m not feeling treasured right now.

    So what do I do?

    I care about you, and love our time together.

    I think I would miss you deeply should we stop seeing each other.

    But also, I don’t want to settle for someone who doesn’t really care about me.

    I want to feel wanted, desired, missed.

    Chosen.

    Not before other people or instead of them.

    Just chosen.

    I want to mean something in your heart, because you mean a great deal in mine.

    I don’t think I’ll respond to you for a while, I need to sit with all of this.

    I don’t know where I’ll land, but regardless I am sad.

    Sad if I continue with you, never knowing what I really am to you.

    And sad if I end it, because I love you.

  • Grateful

    Dear Two,

    Every time I see you I think it can’t get any better, yet the next time it does.

    I feel so comfortable around you, like we’ve known each other for ages.

    I’m so glad I decided to be brave and go on a date with you.

    I almost didn’t, have I told you that?

    I didn’t think we were going to align, that we were moving at different paces.

    Turned out that we could meet in the middle.

    It was the best surprise.

    Last week I visited, and you had just gotten back from a run when I arrived.

    Shirtless and drenched in sweat, you were so beautiful.

    I wanted my hands slipping all over you.

    I have to shower! You protested.

    I told you to just wait a moment because it was so hot.

    We kissed and I felt your wet skin.

    You tasted so salty and delicious, like when I’m surfing and lick my lips and taste the ocean.

    After you showered you made us amazing salads for dinner, and then we took a walk.

    All through your sweet city neighborhood.

    There was a pond nearby you wanted to show me, and we walked through the park.

    When we walk places you have a little ocd habit of needing to walk in the outside of me.

    It’s so heartwarming and protective and endearing.

    That night you had your arm around me, gently holding the small of my back as we strolled.

    It was such a small but sweet gesture of the intimacy I feel constantly growing between us.

    In contrast to One, you seem to really like communicating between our visits.

    Sending me little notes and check ins if it’s been a few days since we connected.

    I love that you send me audios too, your voice is always so sweet and genuine.

    And the lovemaking…

    It’s so expansive and organic and sensual.

    I lose track of how many times we have it each overnight, but it’s a lot.

    It always feels like you can’t get enough of me, and it’s the best feeling.

    I love that you’re uncircumcised.

    It’s new for me, and so exciting and sexy.

    Everything about you feels new and different, yet at the same time you feel as safe as my childhood home.

    I love you, deeply and truly.

    I think you know.

    And although I don’t think you’re ready for me to say it aloud, you seem to be comfortable and not freaked out by it.

    I’m so grateful for that.

    Thank you, love.

    I’m learning so much from our time together.

    You’re growing me, exponentially.

    Since you’ve entered my life I feel braver, more confident, more comfortable in this new skin I now inhabit.

    And I have the feeling we’re just getting started.

    I can’t wait to see all the things you’ve yet to teach me about myself.

    I drew your portrait yesterday.

    Making portraits of people I love helps me process my feelings about them.

    It’s an outward expression of my inner devotion and adoration.

    It means you’re in, babe.

    You’ve made a home inside my heart, and I’m so happy to have you there.

    You feel so right, so safe, so real.

    So thank you.

    For holding all of me, and not telling me I’m too much.

    I’m so grateful.

  • Boys

    I keep waffling.

    Back and forth between hopeful and hopeless.

    I’m loving all the ways I’m connecting with One and Two, I really am.

    But I feel ready for more.

    A big part of my journey into the poly realm is the realization that my heart is huge.

    It has capacity to hold love in a way that few others do.

    And I just want to share that love.

    Freely, openly, in a way that is healing and transformative for the world around me.

    Only problem is, I’m finding there are few people who are able to receive that love.

    I keep thinking I’ve found them, the ones who can hold it, welcome it, let it in.

    I keep connecting with someone new, and they offer me clues and crumbs that seem promising to their capacity.

    They seem like mature, emotionally intelligent and available men.

    They send me long messages about the old wounds their ENM journey is surfacing, and all the ways they are working through those wounds.

    They send me long voice notes expressing their deep care and reverence for navigating the process of connecting with other’s hearts and bodies.

    They respond to my shares about my life with attention and curiosity and affirmation.

    They say they are open and receptive to however our connection unfolds, and seem excited to explore what that looks like together.

    They invite more intimacy, more sharing, more vulnerability from me.

    And then, every time, there comes a moment when it’s revealed.

    They are not who they presented themselves to be.

    They are not men, they are boys.

    I’m just looking for light, fun, sexy connections, they say.

    I’m just wanting to make sure you’re not overly committing your emotions to this, they say.

    I’m just really busy right now, they say as they slowly retreat backwards towards the metaphorical door of our conversation.

    Sometimes it’s something I’ve said, something that aligns with the presence we’ve been cultivating with one another.

    Yet somehow it’s suddenly too much.

    It always comes out of nowhere for me.

    Maybe I’m too trusting, too naive, too vulnerable too soon.

    But that’s me.

    I refuse to harden my heart and become cynical and mistrusting of people to begin with.

    These boys masquerading as men will not take my hope from me.

    My faith in the human heart remains.

    I will keep entering these connections with openness and transparency and authenticity.

    I will continue to believe they are out there.

    Men who can hold and receive intimacy not as a threat to their autonomy but as a gift freely given.

    Men who can sense intimacy building and see it as a chance for growth and opportunity and expansion.

    Men who can express their true emotions without fear that I’ll get too attached or too clingy.

    Men who can trust in this process of untangling mono normative dynamics and beliefs and frameworks.

    Men who have actually done the self work they proclaim so immediately, so assuredly.

    Some days I question whether they’re really out there.

    Do they even exist?

    Then I look at my husband.

    I see his warm loving eyes, feel his tender embrace, experience his deep capacity to hold all of me.

    And I know it’s possible.

    He’s one of a kind, that much is true.

    But his vulnerability and integrity and intelligence give me pause in those moments when I’m ready to give up.

    He reminds me it is doable, having a male body and also a tender and open heart.

    And I believe again.

    Maybe all of these experiences will give me pause when I hear a man explain how evolved he is.

    Maybe I will wait to believe him until he shows me with his actions that the words he speaks are true.

    Maybe I will hesitate a bit before I share too much of myself so quickly, letting some time pass so I can witness the container we’re creating is truly as safe as they’ve assured me.

    But I won’t give up.

    I won’t pretend I’m not the deeply feeling, deeply loving human that I am.

    I won’t settle for crumbs in return when I know I’ve offered the whole pie.