Soaked hair, breeze from the window, gentle snoring from the other room and coffee freshly brewed.
I am collected, my mind and urges and adrenaline in agreement with each other, all part of my consciousness, at least for the moment.
Yesterday I had a million things to say, renouncing the philosophy of cool, renouncing the need to always have something entertaining to say, renouncing so many mistakes I've made based on the need to be considered.
Babysitting the girls, making bracelets and bookmarks and arts and crafts and dealing with tantrums and tears, while the boy was out drinking with the band.
cf, thank you for saying what you did. Thank you for trying, but I think I'm beginning to realize that It's For The Best.
And it doesn't matter, now. Bigger things have happened, greater losses and greater pains, the simple realization that this is more physical to him than anything else, that it's the comfort of cuddling up on a couch and an endless string of blowjobs that bring those words out of him, isn't important.
I thought there was more to the bond, I thought the way his girls scream for me when they touch foot in Montreal had a sense of permanence about it. The first time I kissed them I made a commitment, but I know deeper down that they'll get over it. Their parents are still around, I'm just the storyteller.
Maybe it is cowardice on his part, maybe it is wisdom. Either way, we could have gone for years without argument, maybe this is the one topic, long distance strain and the fact that I'm leaving that we can't see eye to eye on, and I'm not sure it's giving up, it might just be accepting the fact that the one basic philosophy of the sheer love of life is a chasm between us.
He lives because that's what he knows. He lives from day to day, fun time to another. I live for dreams and adrenaline rushes and glistening bubbles of highs and lows, and maybe it's the manic depressive heritage, and it doesn't really matter. I make his days happier, and he sat by and grinned at my wild rushes and held me through the downs.
Maybe it's circumstance razing the mountain, and circumstances are just obstacles, and I know better than to judge a man, but I can't help but tell myself that his hopes of forgetting me for a year and then picking it up afterwards are too much an insult to consider.
So I'll enjoy the smell of him, and the sparse moments we have together while his girls are in town and while I fly to Waterloo next week, and I'll shed big raindrop tears at the airport, and possibly even for a few days afterwards.
I think that my biggest regret is the loss of permanence, and I know that that is cowardice on my part.
As it is, this love thing is taking too much space in my brain, so it rests. I'm sorry David, that when you tell me I'm wonderful it still isn't enough. I'm sorry for leaving, I'm sorry for having too big a brain to fit my britches.
I'm not sorry for my decision, and from today on I am refusing to regret.