Sometimes I dream

I still dream about him.

Sometimes it’s him, sometimes it is others, wearing their faces, but by the end I know it’s him.

I ache to love like that.  Yes, I know that most of it wasn’t real – was my desperate re-imaging in the hope that if I reshaped myself enough he’d love me back.  But I miss it.  I miss the rawness and the blindness of it.

I miss the love that means that you forgo your “self” – where you feel their hurts, their pains, their needs and you minister to them by instinct – without need for reciprocity.

I miss surrendering myself to love.

I worry that I’m too broken to ever trust myself enough to be that vulnerable.

But then here I am – finally able to write about it and think it.

I have lots of love to give to a grown up.  Here’s hoping that someone turns up and that I’m paying enough attention to see them.



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