Inamorata has just left – we had a brilliant dinner, talked alot, flirted and joked plenty, and shared an amazing (if brief) kiss before she headed home, but as usual she left me wanting so much more.
It’s torture, not as intense as it used to be, but in the same vein. I want her, a deep seated yearning that I’ve learned to control through endless cycles of heartbreak, disappointment, self-evaluation and adjustment, but at its core it’s still burns as only desire can.
I’m stuck wanting the one thing I can’t have, teased with glimpses of a life that can never be, all the more foolish for opening myself up to this pain so readily. It hurts, but I can’t imagine a life in which I don’t have this ache to remind me I’m alive