this time last year i was weeping
this time last year I was weeping, often, beneath the frothy maple trees in my favorite grove. i would leave my friends, my classes, my lover, to weep beneath these quiet trees. my mornings filled with the silence of my despair, followed by afternoons of leaky tears melting into night; self medicating with weed and red wine. as if any of that could cure the guilt and confusion of navigating my desires. i was lost in the wilderness with no concept of north.
i had a loving but stagnantly heterosexual, socially entitled male partner. he was open to inviting another woman into our relationship but only as a sex toy to be used and discarded. how could i explain that to me women were more than sex? how could i explain that i loved him but i also wanted to love a woman?
i couldn’t. temptation was close by and i quickly found myself sneaking across the hallway to spend week nights drinking whiskey with my roommate, her mouth tasting like regret and ashes. we would stumble downstairs on bitterly cold january midnights to share her unfiltered russian cigarettes beneath the street lights. her indifference to my pain kept me coming back.
he would not have understood. i could not have explained.
finally i ended our relationship. at the time i was living on an island. he took a ferry to see me. we had great sex in my cabin loft the night before but i knew i would be ending things. pretty shitty of me.
sadly, as is often the case, i had outgrown him quickly, finding that his male-centric way of life was stifling to my spirit. i needed less rules and more inspiration. more room for the solitude i constantly craved.
on this island i met a girl. girl with milky curves and silk hair and eyes made of crystal. girl that everyone dreams of on hot summer nights. i loved her unforgiving intelligence, her knack for observation, her unshaven legs, her sense of justice. i loved her unapologetic existence. but i didn’t fall for her right away.
“what was your first impression of me?” i asked her one evening, her glass pipe smoking in the grass between us.
“you seem like you’re used to being the prettiest girl in the room”
her honesty made me uncomfortable. we spent hours smoking pot. she talked and ate candy. laughing. watching me watching her. i sat in silence, captivated by her stories, her funny speech patterns, the relaxed criss cross way she sat on her bed.
somewhere between my silence and her constant gaze, i fell in love with her.
love, like mosquitoes, thrives in heat. breeding rapidly in swampy, warm puddles beneath sleepy trees. during the sun drenched days of that summer i learned of true north, of trekking across the unpredictable landscape of my heart, and prevailed at every turn.
we revered in the luxury of summer storms, electric air, saturday mornings spent lounging in gentle embrace. i learned what it was like to make her climax, soft legs tensing at the touch of my tongue. her sighs a beacon on foggy shores guiding me home.
summer days lengthened until they turned retrograde, retreating back into the cocoon of autumn. leaves began falling from trees and the blurry vision of summer infatuation focused into the crisp reality of summer’s end. we parted reluctantly and fell easily back into the every day. she met a boy. i met a boy and a girl but neither of them stuck.
now, as the days grow warm again, my heart is lusting after her. she often occupies the space between thoughts. summer has me blooming. what will come next.