It shouldn’t really be a surprise that I have never written about her.
Because foxes sometimes need to keep their secrets, too.
She is the one story I want to keep pure; she is the one secret I could never bring myself to fully reveal. Because reveling in those memories still makes me happy. And it seems somehow cruel to heartlessly release them out into the wild for others to consume.
I would never want to be accused of exploiting past glories for the potential of gaining future shenanigans. Some considerations are meant for more gentle captivity. And I have been trying my best to respect those boundaries. Even though I would embarrassingly crawl on my hands and knees across 127 miles of broken glass just to hear her fart through a walkie-talkie.
Which is probably why she would not ever be interested in a world-weary fox like me. Not now, anyway. Because admittedly, I have my faults. And have somehow evolved into a more genuine disaster from the glory days when last we kissed.
The same characteristics that make me a fairly competent writer often reflect poorly on my efforts as a life partner. I have suffered the bite of that equation enough over the years to finally admit raw understanding.
Because I am ridiculously stubborn. And shockingly feral. I tend to poke emotions. Usually until they explode. I wear my wounded heart on a dirty and patched sleeve; I am forever playing in traffic. Just because I find my annoyance to others hilarious.
I always mean well. But often say things that are hurtful. Not from a place of malice, but because I am still learning the virtues of tempered gentleness. And that is a difficult language to master when viewed through the lens of spending an entire lifetime splattering naked truth indiscriminately on a page.
It was the only way I knew how to write; it is the only way I know how to live.
But the bigger problem is that I somehow always end up falling for every woman I meet. And then I immediately find myself loving them, whether its for five seconds, or twenty fucking years.
I am seldom able to control the impulse to fully invest myself in their story. The underlying curiosity about those captivating creatures always gets the better of me. Because there is something about every damn one of them that makes them special—a smile. A curve. A whisper. And more than anything, I want them to accept the validity of that virtue.
They ultimately gain an often lacking validation; I walk away with another story of heartbreak.
It always felt like an honest transaction.
At least until that Old Town Sunday night when I drunkenly texted her the truth. Opened my heart. Said it straight for once, instead of hiding inside the clever language.
Because she was supposed to have been… the one.
The one with whom to start a family; the one who deserved better considerations. Because when it mattered the most, I was there for her the least. An original sin that I fear remains unforgivable. Leaving me no other option but to continue punishing myself for that thoughtlessness.
So here I am, stuck in a strange and inhospitable state, trying to justify the indefensible. She is caught down in the McNugget, busting teeth; I am still up in the Mitten, kicking uncooperative tin when not caught dancing on rivers of green glass.
We both have our paths.
But it should never have ended up being this complicated.
She once loved me enough to risk everything; I never once stopped loving her for anything. Or, anyone.
Something tells me that is never going to change.
And I no longer give a fuck who knows it.
