Unrequited

I face certain risks by the following confession, but having sworn to myself that I simply must break down the wall I’ve surrounded my heart with and literarily speak from that very place, I’m willing to leap to and learn from this risk. I thought I was in recovery from the events of 2008. It turns out that I’ve stumbled upon another rock on my journey back to happiness. Unrequited love seems such beautiful agony in the paintings by San Francisco artist Mark Stock; it is not. Unrequited love presents pockets of crushing loneliness. Yesterday he misread my eye contact, first telling me how expressive my eyes are then misreading their expression as condescension; in fact what I felt was curiosity and tenderness, the suffocating desire to kiss him and lie with him, naked and warm, listening to his Kiwi accent and the thoughts floating through his head. The words coming from his lovely fuchsia mouth that spanned widely when he smiled... his love for classical music, his interests in yoga, Marxism and Communism’s materialization, spirituality and its inherent individualism. I wanted to hear more, his words like pearls around my neck.
“Your eyes are quite expressive,” he says after a slight pause in our conversation.
Instantly I looked away, terrified that he’d see what I was feeling, that he’d see my desire for him, my yearning to be alone with him.
“I know. I’ve been told that before. It’s a blessing and a curse.” I returned my gaze to him, dissonant over my simultaneous nervousness and giddiness, afraid those eyes would reveal the pounding of my heart. My face reveals everything; rendering me unable to lie. Yet I tried from the first moment I saw him last night to cloud that. As soon as I laid eyes on him my heart leaped into my throat, but I stumbled not, deliberately walking with confidence and happiness to be surrounded by Westerners. But the second I sat on the bar stool and greeted him, I knew the smile on my face twinkled a bit more than it would had he not been there. In fact I would likely not be there had his name not been mentioned during the invite. Just the sound of his name lured me. The sound alone makes me feel lighter, my heart filled with delight like the bubbles of champagne.
In the end, I was thankful to be sitting at a table with him, though yearning to bridge the physical chasm between us. We began our own conversation, volleying it over the voluminous voices of the four other Westerners around us until I asked him to come sit closer. Just that request was a dangerous one on my part, for of course he’d be able to see my expressions more clearly, be able to see into my eyes more easily, be able to read into my sugary smile possibly. I just had to span that chasm. I just had to. Still it was too large. I wanted more. I wanted to run my fingers through his Sampson curls. I wanted to hold his headband in my hands. I wanted to provide the warmth for which he put on his coat, yet I wanted to take off his clothes to let my eyes– and fingers– linger on his chest.
If my eyes are so expressive, how did he misconstrue this lust for condescension?
“You’re looking at me like ‘Yeah, little one, I’ve already thought of that,’” he said in the midst of our deep, intense conversation.
“Not at all. I was thinking that I’d like to hear more of your thoughts, while we’re lying next to each other in bed,” is what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, “Well, I think a lot. And you’re probably thinking that because you know my age. I’ve had more time to think about things like this.”
Oh God! What is this? I don’t understand. It’s unfair. I ache over this. I am besieged with agony over the thought that my suffering continues, evidently not having my share of it last year. The next day images flood my mind. I recall the difficulty of disguising my sadness when he left the table to take a call from his girlfriend. I remember the disappointment welling within me when he left like lava in a volcano. I had to excuse myself to the restroom just to quell it. I gave thanks for the mirror, looking at myself to see if the desperation were visible, as a scarlet D for desire would appear on my face. I think of every moment I’ve been in his presence, at the restaurant, at the bar, on the phone. I think of the first second I saw him. I think of how much I tease him, which clearly indicates I like him. I think of confiding in my roommate about my feelings for him. I think of how my excitement grows at the very mention of him, so that the news of my feelings has permeated to my other roommate and even to someone at school. I think of how I’ve already made him into a verb, as in “I think what I need is to be AJd.” Oh Jesus this is beyond my scope of comprehension. Unrequited love is not glamorous or enviable; it is profound and painful like boulders bowling over me. How is it that at 35 I’m experiencing a new emotion? Good Christ! How much more emotional maturity must I learn? I expected to learn it to be the person I needed to be for the time I met the man who I’d share my life with. Is life trying to beat me into settling for less? I know he’s out there; I know he’s existent.
I do not understand why life has to be so goddamned difficult. I do not understand why, now that I’m ready for love after four years of evading it, it toys with me. I do not understand why I’m relegated to this loneliness, a loneliness that threatens to asphyxiate me. I am standing at the precipice and he’s on the other side of a canyon; between us is a chasm seemingly unsurmountable. I don’t understand. My heart spills over, spilling tears over my cheeks in the shower. I am completely helpless, damned by hope for love’s return as if a child searching for a mother who abandoned him.
I can do nothing. Yet I risk. I risk that others will learn of my feelings just by reading this blog post. I risk my composure. I risk some sort of integrity because I want something I cannot have.
I knew I would have to travel around the world to find the man I’d be with. I knew it would take me a longer time that most people to find the man I’d be with. I knew he’d be younger with a stick thin physique, dark hair and eyes, likely long hair, and a worldliness. I knew because of Nicolas, the only man I’ve loved, and the man to prove that sometimes love isn’t enough.
When in India I started to listen to the following song by India Arie, the love in that country palpable like a breeze and leading me to a keen awareness that I was journeying to make myself the person I’d need to be to attract the one I wanted. This evening, tears still present upon my cheeks, the need for a sympathetic hug from my roommate growing within, I repeatedly listen to this song.
“Ready for Love”
I am ready for love
Why are you hiding from me?
I’d quickly give my freedom
to be held in your captivity.
I am ready for love
all of the joy and the pain
and all the time that it takes
just to stay in your good grace.
Lately i’ve been thinking maybe you’re not ready for me
Maybe you think I need to learn maturity
They say watch what you ask for cuz you might receive,
but if you ask me tomorrow I’d say the same thing.
I am ready for love
Would you please lend me your ears
I promise I won’t complain,
I just need you to acknowledge I am here.
If you give me half a chance I’d prove this to you.
I will be patient, kind, faithful and true
to a man who loves music,
a man who loves art,
respects the spirit world
and thinks with his heart....

Now that I’ve exploded, expectorating myself emotionally upon this blog at the risk of his and others’ finding out, I suppose it’s time to attempt the healing process by admitting the loss and distracting myself with other activities. I will not try to bury it; that’s not true healing. I will accept it and move on, just as I have moved forward in my healing from last year. I just hope it disappears soon to be merely a memory from which I grow.