Going through boxes of papers and old Vault magazines filled with ads of Mistresses from long past, I happily stumbled upon a nondescript, black envelope. Within in were 40 poems, each individually printed on delicate transparent stock, written as an odd mixture of declaration, barely veiled plea and love note from a
slave client lover man who, once upon a time, was very special to Me. As soon as I pulled the seal open, removing the unexpectedly heavy bundle, I was struck by a wave of remembrance of our time together.
C. was a large part of My life during the years 1999-2001; someone who managed to move past professional relations and learned defenses right into My romantic considerations. Scary thing, that. I ended up pushing him away and, by omission, into the arms of someone else. He got married not too long before dropping off the radar (which definitely signaled the end of our relationship) and is probably married still. The two of us are lives away from those countless hours spent in quiet, mutual contemplation of his bound self within The Pit in Arena Blaze’s Byzantine Room. However, reading his words so many years later brings Me back to an almost sensual remembering of C. How he looked at Me in a certain way, with open anticipation and many unformed questions in the back of his eyes. The wave and scent of his hair. His skin under My fingers. The rush I felt giving him pain. My delight in his humiliation.
As I sift through each page, I sense Myself sinking deep into his always unspoken feelings for me. I realize I was never very far away from the center of his thoughts.
I am resigned to loving what she has left behind. As space, a phrase, discarded mannerisms. I will populate her absences, and weep for the scent that trails her. This is how I get used to her with another. I, too, am what she has forgotten, at home in areas she has passed through. There is so much country to occupy. Of course others see her as I do, and spend their nights speaking of new goddesses.
Mine is a contained affair. Framed by walls of another’s choice, and a decor of so many timed screams. Can my love ever be equal here, more than local, and meant for every spot you once were. If my intentions have been improved, by better men, and in this same place. Perhaps it’s time to accept an impossible struggle, and a love too ferocious to forget by morning.
This was planned for centuries, give me permission to believe. My blessings mean more if they were thought of through time. A final expression of an emotion, too old now, that waited for generations to rest at your feet. I am comfortable as something inevitable. Let me adjust to this sudden swarming of grace.
Maybe I’ll share more selections as a quiet remembrance of all that transpired between us. Or, am I just longing to see him again?