eros, logos: an unequal music

Thursday, March 12, 2009

an unequal music

I once loved someone, quite passionately, and he did not love me.

He loved me later, and he loved me before, and this is the story about it.
He always loved me in bed, oh yes.

And sometimes he loved me out of it.....earlier, before I loved him, and later, again.

I felt in his touch that he loved me, before he could say it, and after he'd become able to say it, and even when he stopped being able to say it. Even then, I felt it still, somewhere in his touch, though more distant.
And when he said it again it was there again too, in his touch, and I knew before he said it again, some weeks before, that he loved me again.

But it was only in his touch that he revealed he loved me, for some weeks, or months, and this pained me.

I had to make a choice, and the choice I made was to continue. To continue to love him, and to never say that word. To love him as best I could, and as much as he would let me, and to give up the hope that he would love me--or at least, be able to say that word.

I weighed the options, I considered, I decided also, that I would rather love him, and that I would continue to do so, and make no demands upon him, at all to love me in return. I promised myself I would never speak that word, nor would I play games with him.

How can I explain? Why would I choose this?
I did choose, and I did so mindfully.

In part, I did so because he was my lover, and because it was like nothing I'd ever known. The awakening of sensual appetite, that had been so long denied, the joy we found in each other. The way we had loved. And when he grew cold to me, I was like the moon, the side that has never seen the sun.
but I *had* seen the sun, and so now I felt the loss of its warmth.
Its heat.

I knew also somehow, for we know everything of the beloved, --or rather, I did, and he did of me, because we were so close--that this was *because* he loved me, and was afraid. For what would this do, Love, to my life, to his?
(I was with another then, as was he.)

One night a week he would come to me, and we would make love all night, and not speak of this.

And so we continued.
Our lovemaking changed.
I was naked, on a couch, my feet on the floor, lying back
he was naked also, and on his knees.
he was between my legs

I had taken him to a sex shop. He had not been before, had not the nerve, nor the support. I had taken him there and encouraged him to buy a cock, because he wanted secretly to have one in his mouth, This I knew.
(He was partly exorcising a childhood trauma, as so many of us do in this way.)

I was wet and aching to have him inside me, and he brought out instead this toy, this shadow, this simulacrum.
He teased me with it, running it over me, my clit, my pussy.

I felt his eyes on me in curiosity, detached, like a scientist. Or an astronomer observing some remote object, far removed in time and space, the light that is millions of years old and perhaps gone already when he can see it.
I felt like an experiment, I felt myself become an object, felt myself not seen, for all he watched me.

I was not seen, although his eyes could not leave me.

He pushed it into me, slowly, watching me. My face.

He fucked me with it, thoroughly.

Part of me stood aside. I watched also myself, and I was inside cold now too.

There are some things I know, and can do, and coming is one of them.

And I did.
I came quite coldly, as women can do too, though perhaps not always as easily as men. Shutting off my emotions and my mind, choosing to concentrate on sensation.

But I was not the same again. And when he loved me again, I could not love him too, not the same way. The moon, sterile, airless....I was the moon, again, and solitary.

And when he saw me again, really saw me, and loved me, I saw him too--I'd always seen him--but pitilessly and remotely, from the moon's distance., with that cold light.

Too late.

I feel estrangement, yes. As I've felt dawn
pushing toward daybreak. Something: a cleft of light - ?
Close between grief and anger, a space opens
where I am Adrienne alone. And growing colder.
Adrienne Rich, 21 Love Poems, XVIII

Labels: memory, repost

posted by O @ 14:09


10 Comments:
At 12 March, 2009, Evil Minx said… "And when he grew cold to me, I was like the moon, the side that has never seen the sun. but I had seen the sun, and so now I felt the loss of its warmth." You are a poet. Nothing less. I'm not worthy. At 12 March, 2009, Liras said… That is the problem with being in orbit with another living planet. Close enough to see but not able to truly merge. Merging would cause chaos and destruction. So both continue on the elliptical, close but never close enough. At 12 March, 2009, Semele said… Are you deliberately trying to make me cry...? At 12 March, 2009, Frequent Traveler said… That moment when you really fall out of love brings such clarity with it. And you can never really go back to being blind again... At 13 March, 2009, DnWormer said… I read somewhere that when asked the secret of a long marriage, a couple responded that they never fell out of love at the same time. This post reminds me of that. At 14 March, 2009, Anonymous said… You have described with many words what I just can't with all the words in the dictionary. Thank you. At 14 March, 2009, alphagirl said… I can remember each time I fell out of love - I can feel it - there is a click in my brain like I have turned off the lights. At 15 March, 2009, T - Another Geek Girl said… They say that the opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference. Sometimes the numbness and cold is better than the pain and the burning need. I love you sweetheart. soon, xx At 17 March, 2009, Anonymous said… This particular entry has left me with that hard ache only exceptionally good writing can give me. At 22 March, 2009, Anonymous said… an amazing piece of writing that touched me...thank you for sharing. ~pixiepie
Post a Comment
<< Home