I am living in a world of confetti, questions and questions without answers. I keep writing and pressing delete, over and over again, only to write the same words, following the same thread, scratching at the same old wound.
What do you have that’s worth waiting for? How much is that worth, exactly, in terms of empty hours spent waiting?
Lover and I have had endured a few droughts before this one, when our work and lifestyle schedules did not align. I hazily remember those times as an ache of wanting, of wondering if a sometime-boyfriend is what I really wanted.
Now here we are again, three months of quick hellos and the briefest of kisses but barely any physical interaction. No sleep-overs, no Sunday morning showers, no lazy lounging or soft, sensual tickling.
Oddly enough, I see him more often, if for less time total. And we still talk and text and catch up at night, though I find myself reluctant to talk because it seems as if that is all we do.
It is as if we have performed a reverse evolution, from smoking-hot lovers to just friends.
Just friends…is that what we are now?
I don’t know.
I wrote a novel, a collection of erotic vignettes based on our adventures together. It’s while I was writing this that I realized how much sex was missing from Year 2, how much fiction I had to create to keep the story arc alive.
This realization made me sad.
Yes, we’ve talked about this.
Yes, I think he’s working on how to making things better.
But I’m still spending Friday night all alone, surfing Netflix for something that won’t make me cry.
And he no longer reads this blog, anymore.
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