Memory Lane – What does love feel like?

A love once known. An email to a boyfriend 800 miles away. The one in my black and white avatar actually.

“I read this this morning and the result was just short of tears streaming down my face.

You have an unyielding presence in my thoughts and odd control over my breaths. You are responsible for so many of my smiles and so many moments of ease and laughter. Comfort– marked by bewilderment yet accompanied by a subtle uneasiness, for this is still all too amazing.

A part of me feels dormant when I am away from you. Although I enjoyably live in a world of imagination. Constantly daydreaming and imagining you in your element, in your world.

I am Lucky. Sad. Giddy. In love. With you.

I am sleepy today. Would love to nap with you and feel your warmth and listen as you inhale. That moment where we slow down our breaths as if we could pause time . . .
Am I seeing you this weekend? I really would like a little sun, you, oil, water, sex, naked, food, cocktails, sex, pool, beach, sex, you, kisses, naked, sex, sun, you.



lover, Attainingme”


I tripped and my voice found me

Well, hello again. In an attempt to decipher my current emotions, my mind traveled to the cadence that propels me to write. A craving to purge words. A drug-like state. Calm, seductive. This is the closest I have felt to myself in forever. I love this me, as emotion-fueled, deep and introspective as she may be.

I play with the idea to write here again, regularly.  This is my first time returning since I last wrote. I feel like I’m an adult revisiting her childhood home. The trees in my backyard show my roots long forgotten, the walls whisper my dreams, and I see “me.”

I revisit posts and dust off memories of a life that doesn’t seem like mine. It confounds and intrigues me.  How am I so far removed from these stories? I locked away my past-life and forgot to visit.

In ten minutes, I have found the answer to the sea of questions that have plagued me for weeks; a reminder of the consequences of age, experience and “perspective.”


This movie I am in . .

My life has been a movie. Moments, experiences in months past seem but a dream. I feel as if I am a voyeur looking back at them. I don’t believe it was me actually breathing within them.

And i sit now. Yesterday’s departure of someone leaves my heart heavy. My hand extends to reach for his, to hold his in mine. Now I would grasp so tight, that I wouldn’t be without, that he couldn’t have left and said goodbye.

My steps are now two. The first time in a month since our meeting. He is halfway around the world now. Seemingly unreachable and almost unimaginable. Without the photos, it would be but a dream. I miss him.

Seeing me

If only you knew the thoughts I think of you. As we run, your steps behind me, my uncle’s words scroll through my mind. How much you awoke me? No one has affected me as you did. And you have no clue. Newly single. My S. I filed my feelings for you many months ago. But they remain proven by the color of  my cheeks and the light in my eye when I speak of you . . .

And now you are here. And my words locked. My heart longs for us to get to know each other without the dance we once danced. The me you misread. Hopes that rooms will be filled with our laughter, that you will see the me that everyone else sees. I remember your head on my lap, the ocean screaming in through my windows, my fingers tracing letters, S + D on your perfectly scuplted back. A moment has never been so intimate as hours past, and words not said. I loved you in that moment. But it was post our sealed fate.

Now I think about tonight. A run should the rain not recommence. And I think of the girl that shows up at your door. And I wonder is it the girl that people fall for? Or in the process of hiding, masking my once hurt heart, I am someone else . . .

I can only hope that I deliver me. That our friendship grows. My faith is in timing, for ours is not now. I am gone too much and you too newly single. To the exploration of ourselves, in seeing through our friendship if their is an us beyond what never was.

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.

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.  .  .

What do you have?

Can the world execute a well-crafted plan? A series of events. Is there a camera rolling? This isn’t happening. I am not this girl. . . I see the mirrors. I am secure in my self, but my ego is in check and this insanity, is not . . . 

I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. The text reads. From the guy whose table I sat at Wednesday night as they exchanged Secret Valentine names a la Secret Santa. As he gave each of his friends CDs with a quote inscribed on the packages inspired by the recipient. I was in awe at the group. The friendships. The amazing guy, who I thought gay. Perhaps, this is what I need. Perhaps, this group could be mine.

That evening, a lift of my depression. I felt full as I ascended my stairs. Friends. Being social. A sabbatical from which was too long. I laid down, calm. A departure from my usual “read, write, do” or numb with addiction until I pass out.

However, last night was different. That text. The fashion show. Even Rediscoveringme was there. The tug of war. The trying to be gracious, hating the required hover when one buys you a glass of champagne. I was leaving to meet Caballito. And then his phone went unanswered for half an hour. I sat in my apartment as I received that text from the man I thought gay. I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. And I was angry. Why? What do I have?

Caballito called twenty minutes after. I went and met them at Latin Star at 2am. I watched him and Enrique eat. The lie from weeks ago, a faint memory.


Today. Friday. Thank God. I am glowing. I don’t know if it’s the weekend’s nearing, my prospective career, or the fact that I am no longer emotionally attached and vulnerable to Caballito. Last night, I listened to him as he stumbled on words such as “I haven’t been good to you,” and “make love.” You mean fuck, right. I said to myself. Happily.

This morning I must have woken up on the right side of the his bed. I worked out and as I showered and dressed up for work, actually blow drying my hair. I walked around my apartment in black lace shorts, sipping my coffee, dancing and feeling irresistibly like me. I told the parking attendant, “Creo que tienes el pelo mas bonita.” The window washer, barista, bikers and joggers all waved, “Hi, Attainingme.”

I love it here in PR. I really do. I will ride a rodeo horse tomorrow- it will be a first. I will go to the beach. Work out. And happily spend time working and avoiding the Artist, the Man I thought Gay, and a few others– the men who have presented their emotions. Unzipped, raw and tender.
I walk into my office and Jose, attempts to speak English. “Flo- ers.” What? He chuckles. Laughter- his default response to all things said in English. I walk to the back thinking there is something wrong. More guns? No, he points. To my office. I walk. Flowers.

I assume they are from MattDamon or my sweet 80 year-old friend Tito or the Artist. . . but, then I read the card:
Ha sido un placer conocerte. Espero que tengas un lindo y bello dia. –The Engineer.


Disclaimer: I post this, because these are stories and moments that no friends want to hear, tellings that elicit nothing positive to the listener. But, this is my place. And I write this, because it hurts.