Delete her number.
Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.
Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.
She loves you.
She has been in love with you for too long.
So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.
Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.
Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.
Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.
What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.
Doggedly loyal to you.
That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reach out to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?
She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.
But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.
The reason women are turning you down for casual sex seems to be that, for one thing, a lot of you are calling them sluts afterward. Also, a lot of you aren’t bothering to try to be good in bed.
Quisiera poder abrazarlo, quisiera poder estar con èl.
You don’t have only one soul-mate.
If you did,
you would have married your best friend
three years ago.
She knows you
better than her right hand,
and she’ll listen to you cry
from eight states away.
You don’t have only one soul-mate,
because people wake up different parts of you—
parts you never even knew existed.
The boy when you were 15
taught you what it felt like
to get caught kissing in a closet
at the party you never should have been at
in the first place,
without his lips ever touching yours.
When you were 18,
a boy let you know what it’s like
to have your heart lodged in your throat,
because he’s moving 2,000 miles away,
And he won’t tell you when he’ll be back.
You wait until you’re 22
to get attached again,
and this time you feel it in every inch.
It’s as if you got struck by lightning—
the Lichtenberg figure crawls
up your arms and across your back,
like his hands on your skin
while you laid in bed together,
and you thought the thump of your heart
was in time with his.
You don’t have only one soul-mate;
Instead, you have soul-mates,
because your heart is huge
and you have the room.