And unspoken might feel like mercy but all it means is there's things you've never said. Kris Delmhorst
I needed time to myself last night.
Walking through the streets of the Back Bay/Copley area, looking into the expensive shops, sitting on the cold cement benches next to the reflecting pool, I lingered only long enough on the scenery in front of me to mark the setting of a memory; the scene of a kiss; the pull of my body to hers.
Mostly, I was lost in my thoughts.
Turning them over inside my mind, looking at them with the perspective of a scientist, trying to determine the molecular structure of my life, the physical principles of my actions, the properties that could identify me to others if I suddenly overlooked myself, and I found myself knowing that the place I needed to be was where I had just been.
Sometimes it's just the words that change.
And although she is not in love with me, she loves me. She, in her words, absolutely adores me. And our want of each other is of the same pitch, the same fervor, the same depth.
I had to walk away to come back with the courage to talk about where I wanted to be, and the courage to hear her words, too.
And so, I begin again with a little more courage in the same warmth that I left.