I have 52 hours left of being able to be a part of us. However flimsy and hanging-by-a-thread it might be, I still have something. I still mean something to you in terms of romantic boundaries and emotional responsibility. I can still wonder what it could be like and hope that things will change.
I can still sanely hold on to hope.
52 hours from now that won’t be the case. 52 hours from now you’ll be gone. Officially gone.
52 hours from now I’ll be on my own for real. No back up plan. No maybe. No possibility of fixing it.
52 hours from now I’ll be completely honest and then sit back, alone, to feel the weight of my decision.
I got naked for you. I showed you everything. I cried and loved and opened my chest as wide as it would go. I bared it all. I let you see me. And that made you uncomfortable.
I asked you to trust me. I did my best to lead by example. I got naked first. I showed you that you didn’t need to be afraid. I said it. I showed it. I lived it. I was patient.
I gave you time.
I gave you space.
I kept loving you.
You never got naked. You kept secrets and hid the deepest parts of yourself from me.
You avoided real contact. You refused intimacy.
You couldn’t accept my love.
You needed to be separate. You needed to protect yourself. You couldn’t trust.
I understand privacy and the very real need for a soul to keep a secret place. What I don’t understand is you standing in the way of letting me love the real you. The base you. The core you that could stand naked in front of me and trust that I would only desire to warm your body with mine. Protect you. Take care of you. Bear burden for you.
That I don’t understand.
I wish it was different, but it’s not.
52 hours left of being connected to you in this way. 52 hours, however pathetic and surface it is, it’s still 52 hours more than I’ll have on Thursday morning.