I’ve recently been going through an existential crisis of wondering whether I might be heteroflexible. Which is the most disgusting thing ever. Being straight is like being condemned to whiteness, or like being a police officer. But then: wanting to touch them everywhere, feeling the curve of her limbs like something regurgitated. So: I’m queer. What about it.
Compersion. Am I okay with him having the same experience with someone else? Am I okay with him being on the precipice of something intimate and sublime, comfortable and repetitive (not involving me)? I can’t say.
I don’t know the capacity I have for this. Jealousy feels maggot-like and insidious. I feel swallowed by it. I feel so immersed in this reality in which I am not enough.
And then she’s there in the same space as him, breathing in the same air. And then he’s calling me, drunk, crying. He’s in love. Not with me. He’s heartbroken. Not over me. But then: also with me.
I’m listening to QKThr and thinking so deeply of him, of us in California, of him driving me around and rubbing my shoulder as if to say I cannot be not touching you. He was quiet in a mysterious and sullen way, he loved so effortlessly and graciously. I always felt safe with him, always held. I love him, will always love him. But I love someone new now, and sometimes it’s hard to differentiate between the two in my head (and heart). I long for him, all the time. I miss him with ferocity.
I hope he has found joy. I think I am still searching.