It still hurts, and the more I think about it the worse it gets. Sometimes it comes on unexpectedly, other times I am conscious of what I am thinking about.
I had, during my shower, thought about him, and slid my hand down the cool textile of the wall. I had rubbed my breasts, my arms, my belly and up and down my legs, and I still kept thinking about him.

Inside my head ran a dialogue of what I would say to him, if he choose to speak to me. Maybe I was being wistful. I don’t know, I didn’t know what to say to him. I turned away from him, imaginably in the shower. And I tried to garner strength to carry on. I wanted him to love me. I wanted him to want me as much as I wanted him, and he just simply didn’t. Maybe he did, in some warped way, but not like what I wanted. It wasn’t enough. And I hear beautiful, passionate music, and I think about who it was written for, and i think about him. And I must be a bigger fool. I don’t know.

I believe, in the one. I do, I won’t refute it anymore. I am tired of people telling me it doesn’t exist, that there is only one that is symbolically for you *now*. I believe in the one, I wanted it to be the one, so much, that I would have died. Why is it so hard, to make people understand that? That there could be just *one* person, who you could have, for you. And that nothing on earth will tear you two apart. And how can people say that kind of love doesn’t exist, that doesn’t make sense to me.

And then so a few weeks pass by. I get angrier and angrier about things. My so-called misplaced energy. I start seeing him everywhere I go. I look for bits and pieces of him, its gone beyond obsession, for me now. This scares me. I say so many hate-full things, and I know, that what happened was wrong and that I am not handling this well. I rationalize, that I use him as a safety net to keep myself unavailable, and that I want him. And it gets worse, every week.

I recognize this, inside of everything I do. People who are interested in me, I close my eyes and I pretend its *him*. One potential lover looked at me and said “You close your eyes when you come don’t you?” I nodded and smiled and said something about it being reflexive. And he says “Well when I come, I want to look into your eyes.”

I shuddered, and think about how *he* said those things to me. How he wanted to do everything with his eyes wide open, that everything we were going to do was with our eyes wide open. we were in the drivers seat.

I recognize how this looks, and boy oh boy, do I recognize how it seems. And how, I can gain a life and start seeing people, and think I will be okay. i will be okay. In my mind I start thinking about putting my life together, after its been spinning out control for the last year. And I look at the time, and I feel like I am racing, that I don’t have *that* much time left.

I had always thought I would meet my dream man in a bookstore. I would be sitting there curled up, reading a book, writing a note, hanging out, and he would walk casually up to me, and start a conversation with me. And I would twirl my hair, and I would laugh, and flirt. And I never knew what he looked like really. He was just this “person”. Kind of like this man I dreamt that was making love to me.

That dream started when I was in my teens. I would be lying on my back, and my legs would be wrapped around his hips. In between the pushes and thrusts, he would whisper, half animal-like, “You’re the only one Lisa. You’re special. You’re the first last and always.”. And I never knew, again, what this demon lover looked like. I would keep my eyes wide open while he spoke, and I would stare up and smile softly. I never knew though, what his face looked like. And over years, with the most intimate of relationships (Alan, Andrew, Michael, Dan, Jeff), I would hope and pray that *they* would be the ones. And they never were.