To be free of you means to know I can handle grief like a crystal vase - clear and shatter-able - without needing to spill words onto you like honey.
You told me you dreamt you were superman, but in your dream, you could not save me. I never asked you to.
You could not save me because I could not break myself into tiny enough pieces for you to sweep, and because you were afraid of the pain.
Or maybe I was afraid. It doesn't matter.
I don't miss you tonight. I miss my pink sheets, and the smell of a man's sweat on my pillows - but I don't miss you. I don't even miss your body.
When you told me you wanted us to be alone, in Central Park, that day, I thought to myself, "Oh. So he wants to fuck me". I took your hand and told you it would be ok. I am sorry, because that was the only time I lied to you, I think.
At least I did not lie to you with my body: I took you into my bed when I wanted, as I wanted. I did not use words like "love" - words that rolled so easily off your tongue.
"Do you love me, or are you just addicted to my body?" I asked. I was not angry; merely curious. You told me you saw no difference, but I did: Love is not sex, despite what they teach you in kindergarten - and you, for some odd reason, had sex ed in kindergarten.
But I have never grown addicted to a man's kisses - or a woman's either, for that matter. Like a conoisseur sipping fine wine, I know when the bottle has reached its dregs.
My one regret is that you were not as delicious as I had hoped; your lips were not as sweet, your hands ungentle.
Does it make me evil, to dissect the interaction of our bodies like a scientist deconstructing an experiment gone wrong, as if you were a cell of bacteria?
But I think I wanted you then. Maybe I even loved you, in moments when I was afraid.
Maybe - because who can tell, at the point where sex meets desire, where hormones meet soul?
I guess it's time to open a new bottle.
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