A Love That Is Mine and Mine Alone

The truth of the matter is it doesn't matter how much or how hard you try to push them out of your mind and subsequently out of your life, they're going to cross your mind. It's oftentimes, inevitable. And in my case, I'd run into them before the process could be completed.


The break-up and thereafter was far from amicable. We were like captives on a distant island that didn't know what it meant to cordially disagree. And was displayed for the world to see. When two adults display their raw emotions in states of anger and frustration, the pictures painted are never pretty ones. But we deal with the consequences as we normally do in life. Play the cards however they were dealt to you. Roll with it. Keep it moving. Look at the picture however you choose so long as you don't allow that picture to hinder your growth.


Love is what I write about. It's what I live for. Nikki Giovanni herself even said that we love because it's the only true adventure. I believe this. And I've lived this very belief and quote out on front street for the past 3.5+ years. The heart's desire does whatever it damn well pleases to. And all we can do is trek along with it. And this trekking along also means dealing with the outcomes to predicaments of that and those journeys; including having mutual friends and being adults about a nasty situation, handled in a cold, cold world.


I harbor no ill feelings. No hatred. No bitterness. No anger. No frustrations. None. And God knows I know there are millions of women who would perhaps brow beat me for not feeling this way. But I don't. It's not in my genetic makeup to feel such a way. I believe, everyone's deserving of forgiveness. But everyone is also deserving of a love that is going to love them to their core. A love jones.



He said to me that "... I wanted a love jones sort of love."  "And I do. I deserve it. I desire it. I await it with open arms. I use to believe that no love was worth it without a fight. But should my love for you be pure and true, unyielding, faithful, and forever, there should be no fight, so long as your love is equal and just as endearing as mine...."


I could and probably will write about love forever because it's so multifaceted that there's no one true picture of what it looks, sounds, and feels like. 


All I know is that the love I want and a love I seek, is forever and enduring. It's, the butterflies fluttering my the pit of stomach as we kiss or the sound of jingling keys or a hearty laugh. 


All I know, is that I want a love that is mine and mine alone.

love jonesing love

i think he thought or thinks he has me all figured out. and in figured out, i mean, knowing the reasoning and logic behind the things i do, the way i act, how i've become who i am - why i am the way i am.

i guess.

i am a romantic. i intentionally left hopeless out because i'm not hopeless in this realm. nor unrealistic or bitter, twisted, confused, mixed up, unsure, indecisive, flustered. least not when it comes to romanticism in what i think it is and what i want it to be.

my mother raised me. i was placed into her womb at 15 and she gave birth at 16 but was told no sooner than the moment my umbilical cord was cut, it was said i would die within 24 hours. at 16. i've always viewed her as a single mother though my then step-father was indeed around, present, and in the picture, even with him, she had to defend why she was the type of mother she was. she gave us what she never received. she cushioned our lives so that we would never entail the bumps and bruises that she and her siblings endured in their childhoods. she set us up to be our own individuals before we knew that we were individuals.

a city girl from the projects with teenaged parents, one absent and would be by all means, forever. my father figures were my big black grandfather whose laughter always rolled and bellowed from his belly, an uncle who spoiled me rotten with whatever i wanted and whenever i wanted it, and a great-grandfather who was the smoothest man ever to walk the block, it's from him i inherited the importance of smelling just as good as you look. by the time i was nine, all three of these men were absent from my day-to-day life. one incarcerated and two dead.


but before any of these men seemingly disappeared, they taught me how a girl ought to be treated. they taught me what it meant and what it felt like to be wined, dined and spoiled. big wheelers, custom made gold earrings, all the cookies, cakes and ice creams a girl could ever desire. the only times i cried or do cry over these men is at the thought of them not being around in my day-to-day life. the sheer moment of reading and re-reading these lines bring tears to my shorelines.

and to think of this man who assumes or feels as though he has me "figured out" from printed words from a book full of assumptions, misconceptions, and generalizations, i question if the point and purpose behind this piece is even legitimate or worth my own time.

i was raised by women who were focused more on survival and independence than they were about love and making a man feel happy, wanted, or needed. life growing up was about staying out the way and letting your work speak for you. better to be seen than to be heard because once you open your mouth, you remove all doubt. so i worked. hardly played. i read books and indulged from time-to-time in girly games: hop scotch, jump rope, numbers, down down baby, and so forth. but my comfort was in the words on pages in binded books that took me away from my reality. my comfort was in things that allowed me to imagine worlds that as a nine year old girl, i knew i would have to work endlessly for me to see in my lifetime. i wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. nothing was given. but anything could be taken.

love had never become a factor until discussions of the future came into play. wanting the children after the marriage and school and world travels. to conquer my world first before creating a world for my future. but then you grow up. you get older. you live and experience life through the cards that were dealt to you long before you learned that you were even playing a game.

i read books for the vocabulary. to expand my imagination. to give my own writing the umph it has now. it was never for the attempt to reach what was read; i didn't read fairy-tales to paste my face there and pray on little crossed fingers for my prince charming. as much as it was for the escape aspect, it was to become a better me than to become a better second you.


even as a child, i was too much of a realist to want the dreams i read about or the fairy-tales i watched or the movies about the childhood loves who grew into lifetime loves.

yes, i love love. i love what love is supposed to be. i love how love is supposed to feel and what its lovers are supposed to go thru. i love jonesing over love by myself and imagining how my idea of love would feel if another loved me with the same amount of love, passion, and empathy; the respect, that love really ought to have.


but then life fucks shit up. that and the people in it. you realize that love is an idea, a concept, an emotion that needs action to nudge its body up against it for it to get the human qualities that we people place upon it. it's not love that makes love suck. it's the people who don't know how to make it move and talk the way it ought to.

by all means, love, is not about infidelity (cheating if you didn't know) or abuse or tears of pain from fighting for the attention we desire. yes, people do things that go against what we want love to be. people make all the mistakes in this world. but it's up to those same people whether or not they will learn from those mistakes, or say fuck it, and continue doing what satisfies their warm flesh.

love, is feeling the butterflies you thought had died. it's looking into that man or that woman's face and seeing your future glimmer thru their pupils. it's the uneasy feeling of walking out on faith for what you know you want and deserve. it's about jonesing for this person who when the world thinks it knows what you're capable of, they know for a fact as they've seen you in action. it's that person wanting and yearning to be there when they can't.

it's you loving them when they're torn and battered; loving them thru their growth, their highs and lows, insecurities, and in-sensitivities. loving the love in them while realizing they're human and function 100% of the time as humans while what you see 100% of the time is a lover.


love is just as much about the falling and getting up as it is about it thru what was thought to be impossible.

Kem featuring Chrisette Michele

If It's Love

Growing Into Me without Losing Me

I am a social networking junkie! I'm attached to my Twitter and Facebook nearly 24/7 though I may not be "socially networking" myself. I update statuses because, well, that's just what I do. Oddly enough, these days, more than ever before, I seek a mirror that offers me the chance to see myself in the manner that others see me. What sort of woman do you see when you look at me, speak to me, see my name? When the name Theresa Clark is presented to you as a representation of myself, what comes to mind? I remember years ago, friends and myself would post stats asking "give me one word that describes me", and your friends would comment with descriptions and you would return the favor if they were too participating. Surprisingly, the words then were nice, sweet words: kind, caring, sweet, honest, funny.

But today, I wonder, what would come to mind to those who have known me and those who do know me? Especially since becoming a woman fighting adulthood with the same ferocity she did with childhood growth.

Life grants us chances to see who we've grown into after experiencing life from a first person point of view. Chances like having lunch or dinner with a dear friend and running into someone you'd never expected to see again. Or, on your way to work, and running into a representation of your past, and this running into, isn't exactly how you'd envisioned it in your mind. But it happens.

Yet, life doesn't give us the chance to see in real time how people see us now. It forces us to grow into, with, and because of these transitions and judge ourselves, for ourselves, and by ourselves accordingly. Daunting feat right?

We seek and define ourselves through the things that life makes available to us. We define ourselves thru our fear, our desires, our dreams and the nightmares that ride our backs at night stifling our breathe as it attempts to suck whatever air is left out of our bodies, for fear of what we're to become. We live these lives, for the bulk of these lives staring through a two-way piece of glass that only offers us our reflection. What we see of ourselves at that moment.

It's hard to make alterations when you're not able to see a picture for what it really is; when you're forced to alterate based off of feelings and emotions, off of personal wants and desires.

It didn't take me long to discover that life is about change. And honestly, it's not about much else. We change in life over everything. Life engrains into us early, that at any given moment in our lives, we can change without the requirement of anyone's permission or say-so. Not even our own.


I fight daily to be a better me. To be and grow into the individual, the woman, the creation in the image of my God, I am supposed to be one of these days. And yes, the journey is treacherous and quite tough, but on my good days, the journey is well worth the climb. Yet, I still desire an accurate picture of what I portray and what I give and offer to the world. I seek this out just as much as I may seek personal forgiveness or individual gratitude. I search for it like I sought for faithful love when I wanted and needed it most. Yet, life is not willing to give me the picture of what others see. And I have no clue as to why, only assumptions, gestures, and ideas. All of these though, still do not give the answer to the question I seek: what does the world see when Theresa Antoinette Clark is presented to them? But just as quickly as the question is presented, it is quickly withdrawn because who the world sees and what the world thinks, by far is not as accurate as who it is that resides within ourselves. And that just may be the reason that we're given that two-way mirror that only provides a reflection of who we are at the very moment we decide to stare into that mirror, and figure out who we are then and who we are becoming.


I am not who I am destined to become. I am not the woman I desire to be. I am not leading a life that is in my eyes, admirable. But my growth and resilience, takes the cake in all categories. I grow and am growing. And that, is a feeling, an experience that no two-way self-reflecting mirror can give us, nor one that the world can convey equally as well. We've been put here to change lives and grow. But one of the first lives we're scheduled to change is our own. And how we do so, determines our whole life's worth and outcome as life returns to us only what we have placed into it.




Chrisette Michele
I'm A Star





"I really don't think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don't mind the failure but I can't imagine that I'd forgive myself if I didn't try." 

Nikki Giovanni

Untitled Freewrite (problem with power & relationships)

Clearly, I, have given you too much power. More power than you could or can even handle. And now, because I’ve relinquished your hands, thoughts, and spirit of that very thing that you had no clue what to do with, and that very thing that you abused, you have no a clue what to do without it – or me. But baby, that’s ok. We were not born in power nor raised in it or taught exactly what it was. But, by the time we realized just what it is or was, our psyches had already been confused and brainwashed us that power meant harm. And because of that warped education that we received, you, took it all overboard. And you, did me worst than a woman carrying buckets on her clothed wrapped head in attempt to feed her starving children. You, took me and my love for granted. You, left us lonely in between flannel sheets and cold cotton comforters. And you, expected me to falter without you. Oh trust me, I’m just fine baby. I was bred to survive. I, was created and reared, raised and taught to make it in this cold, cold world.

Clearly, our love was just as genuine and true as Florida oranges with no insecticides or chocolate covered strawberries hand-dipped and made from scratch and with love. We, and everybody else just knew, we, would be it. That we, would make it. That we, by all intents and purposes, would run this town and just maybe, just maybe this world too. We, were the shit. But, little did they know, our love was rocky and rough, it was petite and stretched thin.

Honey, we lasted for reasons different from each other. To you, we lasted and survived because we were meant to be. Because there was something about you that kept me coming back. That there was something about me that you just couldn’t shake from out of those limbs of yours. But to me, it was out of mere stupidity that I continuously returned; wishful thinking and hoping wishfully that something would click and change. That something would be different this time around. But this time around never came around for me to rejoice in change and accomplishment. Instead, I, waited for you, to make a decision that was never made. And a heart like mine, couldn't bare the anguish, nor the pain any longer.

And before I knew it, I was deep in it and digging foot holes to crawl out and reclaim me, so I could escape you, and what I thought, and hoped, we had. To re-discover me, and the parts of me that had been long relinquished and placed into shadows, forgetting who I was so that we, you, could exist.

But baby, all is well. As I've taken back my power so that I could once again live and breathe again. So that I could wake in the morning and fall asleep under the moon's glow, happily cause I tell you, there's nothing like, awaking somewhere you wish not to be. There's nothing like feeling a knotting in the pit of your stomach that immobilizes your senses and abilities. There is nothing like losing, your power to the one you loved; and fighting to get it back.

The Itch that Don't Need Scratching

There's nothing cuter in this world than holding a baby and watching them coo, giggle, and smile. Nothing sweeter than kissing their petite feet, fingers, and toes, or blowing onto bellies protruding over diapers to hear them laugh hysterically. And even more so, there's nothing like watching them grow into fast-talking toddlers with vocabularies that can now form opinions, wants, and full fledge statements. I remember watching my brother as a toddler, though we're only three years apart, I remember his growth and habits. He's now a well-adjusted, fun loving 21 year old man. Our sister, who's three, seems to have grown up overnight. She knows her colors, ABCs, and 123s. She has to help pick out her clothes and voices her opinion on what "blip-blops" she wants to wear today.


Children, no matter how small or large, how sweet or otherwise, truly are the best things made of this world. They show us who we are as they are our best mirrors. And yet, I've found myself from time-to-time, wanting a child of my own for these very same reasons. Odd right? Shoot, scary too!


 At first I thought it was just me. But then I realized on Twitter timelines, Facebook statuses, and everyday conversations, a lot of women my age, were beginning to feel the itch of wanting a baby. A whole entire child. Some because of the cuteness, some to have someone to love more than we love ourselves and more than the man we've created this child with (in some cases at least). For whatever reason, children sometimes have become an active thought subject for those of us in our mid-twenties.


And again, scary thought.


One of my best friends and I always joke about how miserable and mean I'd be as a pregnant woman. And she tells just as quickly "Yup me and the kids are going to have move in for the first 4 months". We've been besties since we were little girls growing up in the projects and she now is a wonderful wife and even more fabulous mother of three gorgeous little girls. I've watched her in action as the oldest practices her ballet, the middle baby is screaming for more  dry cereal, and the baby is cooing and laughing on her hip. She quiets them all without raising her voice or showing an ounce of frustration. I tell her all the time, you're the type of mother I want to be with patience of steel.


I don't know where this itch comes from. But I know how to rid it and do so quickly. Remember that three year little girl I mentioned in the beginning? Her. My brother and I call her the perfect example of birth control. She can be the sweetest child on Earth when she wants to be. But more times than not, it's a screamfest at our mother's as she's constant, non-stop noise. Full of screams and laughter, you're more likely to trip over a dolls head and bang your knee against one of her three bikes - whichever one she chooses to cruise through the house on because "Sasha tryna get me". Sasha's the cat by the way. This child who I love soooo dearly, is the antihistamine that hasn't been tapped into for the "baby itch".


See, babies grow up and babies eventually talk and grow in themselves. And at 24, I seriously, just cannot imagine chasing after a toddler who's nonstop, all day. I tip my hat and offer many accolades to those who are doing the things I can't picture right now. It's not about selfishness, or me being full of myself. There are things in life that we know whether we're ready for or not. And when it comes to children, regardless of how great I am with them, they're the one thing I'd probably gag and cry at the news of "Ms. Clark, you're pregnant" right now.


So 'til the time is right and all of my stars and moons have aligned for the children who will eventually come from me to be bought into this world, I'll take my daily dose of the three year old who wears my shoes, dabs into my nail polish, and attaches herself to me more than I can keep count.


Kids are cute. But I'll stick with the kid who isn't mine and the cat I wake up to daily.

Regina Belle

If I Could

Zora & the Lesson of Time

"Bitterness is the coward's revenge on the world for having been hurt."

— Zora Neale Hurston

I know that this linguistically, aesthetically, socially, culturally and morally is incorrect: but, I fucks with Zora Neale Hurston. And that is the most sincere, to-the-point way that I can describe just how much I not only admire but do respect her and her work; everything she stood for and stood against. The time she came of age in, is vastly different from that of my own, but our stories, the words we choose to use - or the words that choose to use us, remind me of who I would have been if I too came of age in her lifetime. And though my choice of words may not garner the most or best respect that she is justly due - to say I admire, adore, respect, look up to this woman and her literary work, would undermine just how much I really do admire, adore, respect, and look up to this woman. So to say I fucks with Zora Neale Hurston, linguistically, is  a terminology that I'm sure will pull in and grasp a 14 year old city girl who's preparing to walk into high school having not a clue what life has in store for her. And maybe, she'll read this and want to too fucks with Zora Neale Hurston.

Make no question nor qualms, this is not about  ones or my vocabulary in the least bit, but about the simplest and most human way to get a point across. And sometimes, to get that point across is to approach a situation, person, or idea, differently than most individuals would, or previously have. Just like in courting and in love, we nab hearts because our approach was different, or our kiss was sweeter and more sensual, passionate than our predecessor.

I fell upon Zora Neale Hurston as a  sophomore, maybe a junior in high school.   Her legendary book There Eyes Were Watching God, I found in a classroom, flipped the green book on its face, read the back, and had to have it. It wasn't stealing either because when you steal something, usually, you really don't need it. I needed this book.  And sure enough, I read it in I want to say two days, and since, if you will, I've been obsessed with learning about this woman in particular and that time period. She came of age around the time of the Harlem Renaissance, which I had already been deftly obsessed with since I learned who Langston Hughes was as a little girl being snatched up and held onto by the world of poetry and words. I had always been amazed since a child that this movement was successful because of  folk who looked just like me. But when my eyes crossed paths with Ms. Hurston and her fiery swagger that was unmatched for her time, I realized a few things - one in particular being the type of woman I was then growing into.

As I would grow older and experience more in life, I would seek her words by way of quotes because even in simple words and phrases, her sass is always evidently apparent. And its her sass I've tried to take pieces of over the years.

Aside from the obvious timing of life's hardships and time itself, her words in a large sense have taught me that time is not to be transcended, but to be marveled in. Not escaped, but only to be anticipated and pray that it be on our side. It's the years we've succeeded

 that come along with it leave their marks on our faces and bodies - lets it be known with a quick glimpse how sincere or harsh our years have been. Whether thru wrinkles, scars, or dimly shimmering eyes, those around us get a quick picture of what sorts of lives we've led just with a quick glimpse.

At the end of every spring and entrance of every summer, I pray for summer to be gentle to me. I ask for it to allow me to live a life I've never lived before, but one that is understanding and conducive to me and those that share my space. I pray for it to be joyful and glad, for it to be full of proud memories and collective photos to tell the stories without me ever having to purse lips to began to tell what that summer was all about. 

One thing I've learned, is that time and life doesn't keep in your life what or who doesn't belong; who doesn't add to us beneficially.  And regardless of how much we disagree with such an idea or thought, the best is done for us for be better. And often, it's done before we understand the magnitude of the situation. Whether its a friendship, relationship, residence or career move - everything in life has a motive and we're simply accomplices.

Life lets us be cocky. It warrants us to challenge ideas of what is and what isn't acceptable. It allows us to change ourselves and who we think we are time after time; to be more than one person in the lifetime we spend here. And if we're lucky enough, we cross paths with those who teach us and show us who we don't want to be: the horrid step-parents, the creepy teacher with a mole on her face, the boyfriend from hell, or the self-centered "friend". And if we're really lucky, we learn about people like Zora Neale Hurston, who teach us that there's nothing in this life that's off limits to us - and it's our responsibility to seize every moment and opportunity that we want and thus deserve.  

It's taken me a long time to learn a lot of lessons; some lessons have taken more trials  than they really should have, but the lesson was learned. Some, have drained me of nearly every piece of probable or possible energy I had in me, but yet I mustered the strength to keep going, and eventually relinquish all rights and responsibilities.

"Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me."

Zora Neale Hurston, 1891-1960

____________________________

Beyoncé

BEST THING I NEVER HAD

Better & More

"Being at a place where you no longer care is never a good place to be, but, it's often the best place because that's where we put ourselves first."

These words I posted on Twitter when it finally hit me that the situation I'd once again found myself in, I was in, but no longer cared about it or anything but me. And I was and am ok with such feelings. It doesn't bother me.


I always talk about self-worth, self-love, and how we, especially us women, deserve better, more - the best. But we also know that to get such things, a demand is created. Just like closed mouths don't get fed, a heart's desire is never satisfied if we don't pursue its wants and sometimes, its needs.


The steps to a better life, to the lives we want for ourselves always began with us. Point blank. There's no other place, no better place than there to began.


For four years, we tried endlessly to make us work. Call it forcing, contrived, or imaginary, we fought in our own ways, for our own reasons or motives, to make that thing work. One may have felt or thought they did more, experienced more or less pain, gave more of themselves for something that they wished and prayed for some sort of positive return. But oftentimes, God doesn't give us what we want or what we think we should have because it's not meant for us to have. This is a realization that never quite hit me until I decided I was finally done. After countless attempts to work, I caved, and gave into myself. Decided that I was and am too good of a woman to allow someone to use me as target practice. To brandish my heart with actions that left it heaving for air on those nights when the "I'm sorry" and "It was a mistake" weren't enough. Granted, I know he would beg to differ - these are my thoughts and feelings. I'd reached a point when thinking and whispering to myself that I deserve better and more, needed to be known all across the board. Subtle voice undertones and text rants about what I thought I deserved, no longer worked; I knew I deserved better and more, and was going to go to whatever lengths necessary to make sure I received them. And it didn't matter how anyone perceived it - as long as it was known.


Because of then and those moments that I spent alone with myself and with my heart and its contents spilled out ahead of me, I've found myself beginning again.  And as difficult of a decision this has been, I realize it's the best one for me. A chapter has been closed in my life, for new ones to have the opportunity to begin and the option to end. And I welcome them and their many facets with open arms. I welcome my life's forthcoming chapters with an endearing, understanding type of love that only I can comprehend. No amount of love or life songs can adequately describe just how I feel or what exactly lies in my heart. But I know I deserve better and more. And I commend myself on giving me to opportunity to live and the option to experience myself, by myself, and alone in my own skin.

Jill Scott, Hear My Call

I know I've posted this video on a past blog piece, but this is poignant and important :)

the best that i {had} and now {seek}

At the end of the day, and the fact of the matter, is that I did more than necessary, and did my best. Gave my all and borrowed from places outside of myself to provide what my heart could not do on its own.


Everybody's got opinions and there are multifaceted sides to all stories: the good ol' your's, mine, and the truth. But let it be whatever it is and whatever it will become, so long as we both know that I gave my all and more than I really should have. More than I even had remaining in me. More than I could fathom. More questions than answers. More tears than smiles. More pain than joy. I know, without a shadow of doubt or a second of uncertainty, I did my best and gave my all. And it is this fact that hurts the most. Not even that it's over. Or that I've returned to square one, to start from scratch, but, that I, a young 24 year old woman endured and fought, gave her all and quite possibly her best.


I don't know which way to turn or what foot to start with, but I know to move and keep moving. I can't say when will I give into love and usher myself into a relationship again. But right now, that's not even on my list, yet, it is a heavy question that beckons me. Did you give so much of yourself that possibly, you may not be able to do it again? Who knows. I take this moment and those forthcoming to take care of me. To put myself 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. To ensure that I am spiritually, physically, and mentally together and solid.


Right now is about me. And yes, I know I was not thee best, but damnit, I was thorough. I was strong, sensitive, and it. And I refuse to settle for anything less. 


So as you and I reinvent our lives and began from scratch, and I close this chapter of my life, I seek the best of me that I gave to you. I don't expect it back, but I need it back. I need to know that there is a figment, a piece of me that I can plant and watch it flourish; to watch it grow.

Maxwell, Pretty Wings

Just Like That

Most mornings, when I don’t have to tend to any one of my three jobs, my alarm isn’t what wakes me. Instead, it’s his “Good morning” text. And just like that, a smile crosses my face, from ear to ear, cheek to cheek. My brown eyes I’m sure light up because I don’t even feel the weight of sleep on my lids and I happily text back “Good morning”. Sometimes we even have lengthy conversations about life: anticipations, downfalls and shortcomings, the stresses of adulthood – all at seven o’clock in the morning. And after all is said and done, we wish each other good (now great) days and graciously say thanks.

We met in college: I the freshman and he the sophomore. We clicked - immediately. From the beginning, I was fascinated by him. Fascinated by the way he walked and talked: side to side stroll, perfect enunciation, and very little slang. Quick with words, he embodied all I’d wished for: an intelligent urbanite who made me think and feel good. His teeth were white and perfect that embodied one of the most gorgeous smiles I’ve ever seen. He was tall, thick and solid, with deep, endearing brown eyes. He was everything I never crossed, or had the pleasure to entertain or to be entertained by. And I was attracted. There was no denying it.

We’d created a ritual: before or after class, it was deemed our time. And our time the majority of the time was spent nestled in sheets for quick half hours to get our days started. It was convenient and fun. For the both of us, it was different. There was no title. No responsibility or position. We understood, with no discussion into the matter, that at any moment or time this could end. Yet, we kept at it, believing and convincing ourselves that this was platonic. Unbeknownst me, this non-committed commitment would eventually become a problem. But somewhere in the midst of the fun and excitement, somewhere between all-nighters and caramel lattes, somewhere in the time spent together, however trivial and unpromising, I caught feelings. And the feelings that I tried to control, eventually got out of control. I wanted more than rendezvous’ that took us across city and back, but was too fearful of expressing any of these feelings to him or admitting them to myself. My form of control was to sever ties and let the memories of his bedroom and the subway rides before and after class to become figments of my past. So I sent a text. Said what I thought I needed to say, but not what I really wanted to say. He responded; frustrated and confused, in a daze and lost as he attempted to understand why I made such a brash, sudden decision to leave him alone and remove him from my life. To make him a memory that I wouldn’t even visit. I never responded. Just like that, I let him go. And left him alone. Or so I thought.

Fast forward two plus years.

I had never stopped thinking about him and his style, his swag as we say in big metropolitan cities. Always wondered and questioned the what ifs: what if I’d never sent that text; what if I’d told him what and how I really felt about him; what if I’d asked him to be mine, and mine alone, maybe, just maybe, I’d be happy. I always wondered what was he up to and how was his life going while mine was falling apart at the seams with no needle and thread to piece it back together. I was the lone soldier fighting for the survival of a relationship that no longer existed realistically, yet I was still in it. I’d fallen in and out of love on a seemingly daily basis with a man who still yearned for the streets, who allowed those fantasies and wants of what existed outside of our relationship, to view me as second best. I wanted out, but didn’t know how or when, yet, I had a laundry list of reasons why I had every right to walk away and never turn back. It baffled me daily, how I could lay next to my partner, to my lover, to the man who I cooked breakfast and dinner for, washed his clothes and his back if he’d asked me to, and wonder about someone whose memory and existence I’d promised myself I wouldn’t visit. So for months, I questioned if I should reach out to him. And for months, I told myself no. Never look back. Never go back. Leave then, there. But one evening, I ignored these notions; I typed my message and clicked send. Just like that. Unbeknownst, I’d also opened up a new can of worms.

A few days later, he responded. And my heart fluttered rapidly. His response, ‘who’s this?’ Heart sunk to depths I never knew existed. I played with whether I should respond or not, if I should refresh his memory like a steady clocking web browser. Instead, I deleted his response and my original message. Just like that. Delete. Case closed. On with your life.

Or so I thought.

A day or two later, he sent a message on his own accord, and thrilled merely doesn’t explain the sheer excitement I felt. His memory had been refreshed, without me even having to do it. I was happy that he remembered me. Regardless of what his memory was, I’d obviously made some sort of indentation in and on his life for him to recall just who I was. And just like that, we were back on. As if we never stopped.

We re-entered each others lives quickly; like childhood friends who lose touch after elementary school graduation and reconnect as adults. I was happy and satisfied. My eyelids fluttered at the sound of his voice when he called or answered. When his good mornings and good nights were received, opened, and read. There was something specific about him that I sorely lavished in, and secretly, was falling for. He did what was not required of him, but his willingness to do so, made him even more special. He was a secret worth holding onto, and I held on for dear life.

I remember the date: October 19^th. It was a Friday. And I was so excited to see his face after two years, though I’d never forgotten it, and knew I never would. A few past 10pm, I saw his silhouette strolling confidently down my block, he looked like exactly what I remembered and smelled even better. We hugged tightly. This tightness, I felt every curve and memorized it and wished not to let go. This tightness was nothing but an endearing love that whispered ‘I miss you more than words or actions could possibly explain.’ With this tightness, the hair stubble of his beard pinched my neck, yet, I didn’t even mind. I felt his hands firmly grasping my waist, the scent of his cologne on his neck and collar, the thickness of his neck, and the coldness of his face from the autumn night breeze. I stood, hugging this man, inhaling his scent and feeling the sheer beauty of his skin, knowing exactly what road I was on and I knew at no time soon would I yield to anyone or anything – let alone stop. I could’ve stood there for eternity and not have gotten tired. And just like that, I came to realize and accept that my feelings for him were not just those of lust and infatuation, but of sincerity and compassion. My feelings, felt at home; they were where they wanted to be.

And since then, my thoughts have been consumed by him; wanting to see him more, to kiss and hug him more. To stare into his silly brown eyes more. And feel his hands grasp my waist and hug me forever more. I wanted him more than what I anticipated; wanted him more now than I did then. I wanted him to be who I woke up next to on lazy weekends. I wanted to see his name in my incoming, outgoing, and missed call log more than anyone else’s name. I wanted him to be the man who I sloped my body across to watch afternoon sitcoms and nightcap movies. But the reality of it all was that I wanted him, but knew right then and there, he was not to be my own, not to be claimed by me at that moment in time because I was unfortunately already claimed and attached to another. And as dissatisfied as I was with what was at home, this was the reality of my situation. Relentlessly, I was bothered and haunted by the fact that he was where I genuinely wanted to be, but I wasn’t. I was even more bothered by his contentment and wanting to be my number two. But every fiber of me wanted and needed this man to be my main man.

So for months, we played around. Our good mornings became a routine, it felt odd if one wasn’t sent or received. He became my consummate partner with no title. We said nice things to one another just to make the other smile. Sent smiley faces in text messages and expressed excitement about the next time we’d see each other. He became an important piece of fabric in my life just as I was in his. He was the person who I could (and I did), talk his ear off about anything: problems in my relationship, problems at work, what happened at the nail salon, or what I planned to do this coming new year. He listened. Never interrupted. Never judged. Never made me feel that my words were falling on deaf ears. I knew he not only heard me, but he listened.  I always had his full, undivided attention, and that meant the world to me.

And as time passed and the stresses from my everyday no longer mattered, things began to change. Hugs turned into kisses. Pecks upon lips were given freely and when least expected. Nicknames became necessaries and staples. And just like that, I came to realize, understand, and accept the fact that he meant more to me than sexual escapades and blocks of time spent. He wasn’t just someone in my life, but someone who meant something to my life. I wanted and consequently needed him around. He added to my life and time with him was never wasted.

I was quickly approaching my birthday and overwhelmingly fighting the realization that I was getting older. The more I fought this idea, the more I understood and comprehended that life was designed to continue. It was designed for us to fight ideologies and defeat them. He found my sadness and frustration with age to be a form of humor. His laughs have always been and still are hearty and full; they make me laugh and the timing of them have always been perfect. Subsequently, age made me realize that the relationship I was in, needed to end so that I could began. And it did. Tragically and not in an amicable manner, but it ended. And even in the end, he was there. It was then he explained to me “I don’t know if you realize this, but you have every right to be picky with anything you do. If you don’t a man who cheats, you can weed them out. If you don’t want a dude with kids, you have the right to deny them. You deserve whatever you want, but only if you’re willing to go after it.’ I thought to myself, ‘but I want you. Why can’t and don’t I have you?’ I never opened my mouth.

The fascination that filled my body over four years prior still existed. And as time passed, as we grew older and began to experience the trials and challenges of life, as adulthood slam dunked the reality of what it meant to be an adult, to be grown, into our lives, the more we began to rely on one another for strength and a listening ear. We became tangible fabrics in the lives of each other. It no longer was a-here-today-gone-tomorrow-situation – our purposes and existence in each others lives appeared to be and felt semi-permanent. And just like that, existence and purpose began to get analyzed and studied like a piece of literature. What we added to the lives of one another became crucial and critical as the days passed and the vices of life ensued.

We wanted each other, and wanted it badly. It showed in the way we stared into each others eyes. It showed when his hand folded and wrapped itself into mine. When I’d press my nose into his neck and deeply inhale his scent. It showed when he made it clear that he wanted to hear my voice before closing his eyes for the night, just to hear each other say goodnight. When we’d call each other on our lunch breaks or on our way home, or when our stress levels have peaked and need an unbiased ear. He was there for me just as I was there for him – but it wasn’t enough. And because of this, we found ourselves pulling away, whether from the stresses of life, or from the realization that though closed mouths don’t get fed, we never bothered to open our mouths to voice concerns and wants, we began to change toward one another. And just as the whether grew cold, something changed. It was noticeable, and I was bothered by it.

Sweet kisses and text messages are perfect when all is well – but what happens when it’s time to weather the storm? When to have a body lying next to me is wanted and needed, more than an empty promise to visit or when a week’s worth of ‘good morning’ texts are never sent and therefore received? I realized that though we temporarily claimed each other’s attention and bodies, our hearts were not to be claimed. It became daunting to me, and I’m sure on him as well, that to greet each other day in and day out without knowing what the final outcome would be, was a feat that bought forth nothing but anguish and frustration. So day-to-day is how we handled each other because we understood that we bought something new to this invalid relationship every day. And no days were promised. None of them had guarantees. No one and nothing ensured us that one day I would be his and he would be mine. I had to come to grips and realize that sooner than later, just maybe, as mystical and godly as this man is, he just may get tired of playing cat and mouse. I was forced to admit the fact that as beautiful as this mans existence and all that he embodies is, neither of us belonged to one another; he could not bare permanent claim to me. And though he changed daily and surprised me even more, I knew I had to take my heart off of the table before it became lost in a whirlwind of emotions.

He’d been stressing about work and I was happily adjusting to the single life. His calls had ceased, visits stopped, messages went unanswered. At one point, it had been two weeks since the last time I’d heard his voice, and even longer since I’d been able to feel him. I knew something was wrong and had convinced myself that his joy with me had ended and maybe, just maybe, the thrill was gone; but I hoped and prayed it was just stress and he needed space. Against my own desire, but for the sake of my heart, I’d vowed that I was once again done with him: no texts, calls, or visits. I went cold turkey, but daily, thought of him. Daily, I wanted to send that good morning text, that good night text, that I miss you more than I believe you know or could possibly understand text. I wanted the back and forth to stop. I needed it to end. But I also needed him to know he was missed; so I told him. And thereafter, things significantly changed. Yet, he still is not mine, but I believe in my heart-of-hearts, someday, he will be – or so I hope.

When I think of him, he reminds me of a school girl crush that’s grown beyond crushing and lusting, but has settled at the tip of love. In my belly, butterflies have harvested themselves and they flutter at simple thoughts of him. That quiver at the idea of never. That tighten at the idea of not having. But school girl crushes too have to grow; and often, they have to grow fast. They too have to face life and its realities. They too have to realize and understand that they deserve more than the minimum. More than the basics, or bare necessities, or what’s left over.

It’s always been said not to count your chickens before they hatch, but at least anticipate them. And he was and is anticipated to every degree possible. I wanted and still want this man to belong to me. The reality that I am forced to face daily is that if he wanted me and wanted us, the effort would have gone far beyond text messages, monthly visits, and even fewer calls. If it were possible, I would have loved this man who hugged me so tightly, kissed me so sweetly and so gently, and who wished me nothing but good days, bought nothing but smiles across my face, and showed nothing but respect and compassion, why was he not mine and I not his? The woman I’ve grown into has made it clear that though not all things are meant to bud, grow, and flourish – the love of and for this man that I dream of, is not one of those things. At least that is what I pray and wish upon. I pray and wish that my want and desire for him, does not go unnoticed or unrequited. Though I am forced daily to fight against what is realistic and pragmatic, fight the thought that he is who and what I want, I just may not get him, I remain a hopeful romantic when it comes to him.

Too often, we daydream ourselves into worlds that do not exist, worlds that if they were meant to belong to us and to be claimed by us, they would be ours to have and to hold. We want what we know we will not obtain or receive regardless of the fight. We live for love, and die for it to – fight to endless depths to taste it. Convenience is always that bittersweet friend who fogs the glass and obscures what reality really is. And the reality of him is that it’s fun for now, and so long as the fun ensues, all is well. But in my heart-of-hearts, with closed lids and a humble heart, it’s wished upon stars that this is not the case.

And though I’ve spilled and filled these pages with uncertainty and confusion, I fight daily and often because he is with whom and where I want to be. Yet, at the heart of the matter, he is not mine to claim. And battles with the heart are always dangerous.

Growing is merely an extension of letting go. And it is here where I, and most of us, get stuck and lost in a daze. Fearing what is not known or familiar, it is the ‘hypothetically’s’ and ‘what if’s’ that haunt us like distant childhood nightmares trotting through our memories. We often, nearly always, convince ourselves that what is in our present, in our right now, is right for us right now. But what if it isn’t? What if there exists and breathes a man who will fight not just endlessly, but to the death for us? What if there lives a man who not only promises not to make us cry, but keeps his word, and for him, we never shed a tear out of pain? What if what, and who we are holding onto, what we want to keep around, no longer wants us to fight on their behalf?

I fight these ideas; these thoughts with shields and swords like a knight, all while questioning if he feels, does, or if he would even do the same just to keep me around? And suddenly, my heart quivers and the butterflies tighten. My youthful energy dwindles and my eyes glimmer with tears. But before the tears could fall, I face them head on and convince myself and my heart that what I do and how I feel is not in vain. And just like that, I make it known that letting go and moving on, is not an option. And just like that, continue to move in and out of days hoping he’ll take notice of my supreme dedication. And just like, I take my heart from the vault, and place it on the table.