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.