I thought I could climb out of this sadness. I tried to abdicate this relationship, once again. It’s been so up and down, I feel the pangs of guilt, thinking this is my fault. I am not the married one. I am the lover, a figure of disgust and ridicule. I never thought I would be in this position, but I am dictated by my heart.
Four times we have been in this place, four times we have stopped, with broken hearts. We wait, but seem compelled to try again. If this was written as a play, it would be a tragedy. Our love would perish, could not withstand another parting. No matter how vague the solution, we can’t give up, as if sipping nepenthe each time we think we can go on without the other. The pain of separation increases with each ending.
Our lives are sallow reminders of what we dream them, want them, to be, on the offhand chance, the fantasy, they might come true. We can’t give in or give up. Even though it is sweet torture, we stay. Then part again, try to live without each other, then reappear when one of us cannot stand the loneliness, the lovelessness, any longer.