When women close off

Turbines in my mind. The words I should have said, but those for which my lips would not part. I have felt these gates before, but they are years removed.

Now multiple variations of these words dance in my mind. And I wonder if your day will be as plagued as mine—your mind taking pit stops to guess what happened, for I know my distance was without logic.

But baby, I feel involuntarily closed. When I saw you at the gym, the feeling was unrealized. I left high with emotion and attraction, my body and my mind roused with the memory of your magnetism. But your surprise arrival as I stood stark in the shower revealed a shyness, a lost comfort.

We did speak as always. Intimately. We played. We laughed. It was the first time I had seen you in five days. Five days that were devoid of communication—I was left instead consumed by the waves of you penetrating my thoughts, missing you, imagined conversations, retellings to never be told of the daily happenings and the mishaps that are my unconventional life.

Every ounce of me is not trying to punish you or play games. I loathe these gates of mine. I loathe them for I know they are without reason. Although, I feel that I don’t trust you. But those words, too easy to misconstrue. I don’t imagine another woman or ulterior motives. What I don’t trust is us—your feelings regarding us. Am I still being tested? When can I sigh, receive my grade?

I am unzipped. Vulnerable. And raw.

My body in charge. For it cannot pretend. My explanation poor. “I am not feeling physical.” It was beyond my control. My body and my mind no longer one. I know that you care. But my subconscious demands more and my body protects. Needing reassurance, security. I hold on to the infrequent expressions you have gifted me. Your penned name and on date on my wrist as you joked that I am yours. Your retelling of “the girl I am seeing.” Of the investors and your best friend substituting your nickname for me in conversations. I attempt to fill my thoughts with your actions, actions that should provide me with the knowledge that you and I are indeed a us.

My body argues. And I am sorry, cognizant for I truly must be a saboteur. I think of my lips and my desire to speak, to explain. Of my inability. Wishing I knew our unit was secured. Realizing that your love language may be actions, but that I may be one who requires words. And I am at a loss.

With lips that only part releasing an empty breath.

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Rollercoaster

I have encountered an unfortunate recurring problem. With each extreme high, I dance. Enjoy. And then sink. Today I drove. Thinking of how grateful I am for my life. In disbelief. And now, I sit. Empty. Shake it. I say. S. Work. Dreams. Stress. Balance. Moments out of movies. And then a lull. Mundane. And disconnected.

The waiting game

He knows my beauty marks. He touches them. He stares at me intently. Captivated and engaged.

His eyes pierce mine. And his ears listen–to words shared and to those left unsaid. 

He is honest, brilliant and ambitious. Not to mention stunningly handsome. He is complete with values and goals. Many aligned with mine. He is a rare one with who I match. Our courtship has been effortless. I have lacked the unease or giddy high. Simply made better. Intrigued and complemented. A path too clear to a fulfilling relationship . . 

He tells me my eyes do all the speaking. I argue his speak louder.

His words flow freely. While I digest mine. 

Last night I wish he left the speaking to his eyes. For his words have evoked my desire for a hiatus. I am angry. And even worse, unemotionally so.

 

The facts are simple. Our first night together ended at 6am. Back in his apartment, in his bed. The alcohol took over. Intelligence we lacked. However, I left without feeling as if our actions sabotaged us. I felt the “us”  more connected.  . . . What rules?

The following evening. A late dinner. Followed by sitting in his car for two hours speaking. Each night after has been hours on the phone or more of the same, food followed by conversation amongst streetlights. Intrigue consuming the air. Kisses withheld. The passion of the first night forgotten. As if it was yet to come.

Friday and last night, I spent the night. Reading Spanish in bed together. Working. Teaching me how to roll my rr”s. Light kisses. And some playing. I halted the progression of sex on Friday. Saturday, four more hours of talking in bed and an expression of how much he liked me. Last night, his head disappeared under the covers. And I stopped him for he need not make this any harder. I knew whatever waiting period was required had not come due. He continued. I won’t do anything, he said. And then he did. Ahh. And I stopped him.

But then he asked me why. Stating that he knew his reasons, but what were mine. My words fumbled. 

And when he shared . . . I turned my head. My mind wanted to leave his apartment. Swiftly and succintly. 

S had tested me.  “In a relationship, one of the most important things is being able to respect your partner and I believe there is a cycle that has to happen.” He had previously expressed how I was different and the positive aspects to waiting, but last night, he set me up for failure. And I am angry for I almost failed. And I say, fuck him. I can’t understand how he could determine my relationship worth by this barometer. Reality is, we did so once already . . . If he gave other reasons I may agree and perhaps, I do. But, a test is not sweet. It is not wanting to get to know me or build the passion or whatever else it may be . . . Sighyves_saint_laurent_-_ysl_m7

And now these expressive eyes of mine are viewing something so many of us women often question. Will a man only see you as relationship material if the sex is postponed? I suppose the answer sometimes is a very definitive yes.

For today, I am done with tests. And stubborn.  .  .

S.

Recent weeks have been marked by many moments with new men. Moments that I enjoy. Attraction both physically and mentally. However, none were the precipice of a relationship. I started to enjoy the varied cast and believed that perhaps, I am too self-involved to warrant anything more. 

But, then I met him. S.