X and I had a nice talk last night. I managed to let him express himself, as oppposed to the usual sara-crapfest. Holding him, stroking his hair, I felt all the love I have for him become concern, not a selfish concern, but a true one, one made of years of friendship that transcend love and lust. Watching his huddled body, I no longer saw the ghost of Rebound Fuck all over him: he was himself, and I was there, and I felt privilegied to be there for him, to tell him that he needed to reaffirm what he wanted, that he could not get any friends if he didn't know, deep inside, what he wanted to give and how much he wanted to receive.
I have such hopes for him. He is the nicest, most lovable, beautiful man I have known. Right now, before my heart starts breaking again, before my system works overtime to get rid of him, of all the complicated emotions he stirs in my bruised body, I can revel in knowing that maybe one day, in months or in years, we will be there for each other, and be happy for each other, and treasure the secret past without neither hope nor bitterness.
To you, my darling X, I wish everything. But now, it is time for me to build my own protections and to find my own answers, it is time to leave him behind and to forget my pain for hours at a time.
To our future friendship, and to my present happiness.
To the future bonds we will have that will neither hurt nor scar.
And to me.
I'll drink to me this morning, before leaving for a week. Strong, beautiful, clever, resourceful, over-emotional, trick-pony, giggling, short-legged, lopsided-smile, imaginative, clinging me.
Happy recovery, dear girl.
LA FEMME CITROUILLE
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