Aug. 7th, 2012

fiat_knox: silhouette of myself taken at sunrise (Default)
I can't stop thinking about her. Twelve years on, and I can't stop thinking about her.

We met when she came up to visit me. She'd come a long way. We talked through the night. In the end, we slept with each other before she had to go, and there was just something about our connection.

We did it again, not long afterwards - but then there was an argument. She got onto the train, not a word, no looking back, and she was gone.

A few years after our brief, torrid affair, I began this blog. I landed a job, that turned out shitty and run by crooks (at one meeting, one of the managers bragged openly that they were "robbing the customers blind!" - something I never told the customers, because the service provided is one of the few pleasures they have in life, and they need it as much as I needed my pleasures).

I then lost that job, and began the life I lead to this day, with all its weird trials and tribulations. People I'd known only as names became friends; people I'd thought were friends turned out to be enemies; and I really would not recognise me from the weird changes that had taken place in my life since that time, twelve years ago.

I've even had a new lover, or two, in my life. I've flirted. I've seduced. I've had one of my dates take me to, of all places, Ikea. Yes, really. Ikea. Her idea of a grand time out. (And I thought my seduction technique was bad ...)

And I've had my heart crash so hard, so many times, and I can only hope that I've done my bit, in all this time, to make the world a better place.

I'll be coming up to the eighth anniversary of my moving into my current digs in a short time - I moved in on 2004 08 27, officially spending my first full night there the following day, once the contracts had been signed and the furniture moved in.

But in all that time - the dates, the affairs, the seductions, the hypnotic sessions where I heard some impassioned voice calling out my name over the phone, knowing I'd just sent her into a spiralling orgasm with just a word ... everything boils down to one person. A woman whose warm skin, whose body, whose voice, I miss so much, even to this day. In times of great duress, it's her I think of. Not my Mum, or any of the others. Just her.

I think of the feel of the curve of her hip as she lay beside me, that last night; her smooth, warm skin; and the way she'd told me "I don't love you that way," as though she knew for certain what way I did love her.

I may have thrown away our romance, but I've found it impossible to let go of the attachment. That may be my greatest failing, my greatest stumbling block - the thought that, if I was asked at the end of my days "Do you have anything worth living for?," I'd cling to the idea of seeing her sweet face ... only to find that she hated and resented me, or wanted nothing more from me any more but to be friends without even benefits.

Sometimes I dream real dark. And sometimes I dream of this. And I've been dreaming of her, now, for the last three nights. Every night. And I don't know why, because I honestly thought I was over her. But clearly, the attachment is still there, even if she tethered it to a traffic bollard just outside of Gatwick on her way out.

So right now, I want her to be free. I want her to be loved, by whomever she loves, and to acquire her friends old and new, and her lovers old and new, and to have a family, and furkids, and to be loved. If she is loved, by whomsoever, she will be all right, and I'll be happy knowing she has a good life.

And now everybody will have to excuse me while I try and salvage the wreckage that is mine. Twelve years on, and it's still a post-apocalyptic wasteland of a life. I've had lovers, and affairs, and been attracted to many - but in all that time, I find that I have still only ever loved one.

I love you, Laura Cattani. Whatever you're doing, wherever your footsteps guide you, whomsoever walks with you on your path, be loved with that person, be fulfilled, be free and be happy.

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