Scribbles

Recently I had occasion to recall a conversation I once had with a longtime friend about the nature of relationships with women; of lust, desire, romance, passion, regret, frustration and sometimes even sadness. It was primarily an academic discussion, generally speaking and with no particular emphasis on current or former girlfriends/lovers/partners etc.
She has had many more girlfriends than I and over the years has imparted little tips, helpful hints, and bits of learned insight about "understanding women." I have on occasion sought her council, heeded her advice, or simply deferred to her experience as it frequently exceeded my own.
As we had exhausted the topic she offered this very general, oversimplified, psuedo-poetic summary:

Sometimes you really want her
Sometimes you even get her
Most times you just don't understand her
But you must never lose her before you've actually lost her

I'm not entirely sure what that means but I was reminded of it and thought to share it.

(orig post 6/19/19)

Not unlike days that so closely resemble one another that they could pass as the same, yesterday was much like every other. The day before as well was just such a day. Last month was entirely filled with days indistinguishable from one another; an endless parade, one at a time, then the next after that.
I had all but lost interest, looked away from the chase of sun and moon, forsaken reliance on the cycle of seasons to forewarn me of the impending change in climate. Almost.
Then the world changed: I met her.
So what? Little did she know I had already seen more of her than I had anyone else, that I am thinking of her now, how foolishly I imagine us treating each other, the face I see while I abuse myself. Never would I tell her of my urges. I couldn't. Much of the shine of them would rub off, the novelty fade along with the fantasy.
Caring not which of us was more naive she greeted me, asking the one question that should have been most easily answered; the one question I was most afraid she would ask.
There it lay, parched, thirsting for an answer. Any answer would do, the truth or some other.
Frightened but determined, bold if uncertain, I exposed myself to her and to my great pleasure, she to me for what I desperately hoped would not be the last time.
So far it has not been. We have become not two, but one. Not mirrored images but the same face and self. We rarely speak of the passage of days, the future near or distant, only moments one at a time, then the next.

(orig. post Jun 10, 2019)