all the love stories

it's a tricky situation. the love as i call it is not fading or passing, it's dying. falling apart, possibly irrecoverably. i can see that what will remain much longer is simple, straight-out attraction and a longing for a more innocent past. but the love part, the completeness of it, is what's crumbling. there's only so long you can bear your vulnerabilities and desires, as an embarrassing, shameful need rather than attempt at something, and have them flap about pathetically like a fish drowning on land while a small audience, yourself included, looks on, unwilling or unable to say a word.

and there's bursts of spiteful anger - but out of jealousy and self-pity? maybe, in part. anger forged in resentment possibly more of my own foolishness than at her.

the cause of this breaking of the feeling of my love for her as pure and true, while it instead lingers as desire, can be simplified as a perceived emptiness in her, or a professional concealment. in memory, even, when we were together, i recall fearing my desire outweighed hers - the sense that i know i desired her greatly, while i could feel ignored or unwanted even in her company. not unwanted as in wishing to be rid of, but from an indifference. and then, at the end, it was so so easy for her; there was no show of emotion other than a social awkwardness. when i broke down in sorrow and desperation at that time, wanting a chance to fix what i didn't know or see as broken, there was no emotional reaction, not seen, not shown; again, just that look of awkwardness and kind pity.

that awkwardness and kind pity has happened over more than once since then, at times when i failed to be quiet. but she's okay, she's always okay.

i have questions that need answering, when she has time away from an overloading of practical-based stress, i'll ask.

my love (yes it is/was that) of her, of us, was driven on a feeling of a connection, but it's dying when that connection is rewritten as a fantasy and, very significantly, we were never together as i felt we were. if i'm wrong about being wrong, and there was a closeness, then what has happened to allow her this simplicity, this blasé manner of easy friendship, i can't imagine
- and it scars our heart, if that exists anymore - a heart of the kind an arrow goes through, etched into the bark of a tree you once kissed under.

turning, walking away, looking back, looking back, "Good God she's beautiful... ... ... How can I be so wrong?"

(i hate this drama. my desires, my romanticism, breathe life in lightly considered freedom. when my behaviour is masked and restrained, when my actions are self-judged on appropriateness and being steady not to cross a flirting line or become sadly cloying, behaviour and mood together is stilted. and she doesn't know the complication.)