Playtime Ended

I have tried to stop wanting him, and failed. The problem is I have to stop wanting. If I can find that place, before I knew he existed, where I hardened myself to want, and put aside all desire, then I can stop wanting altogether, him included.

It was a cold place, sterile, consumed with practicality. But it saved me from pain and yearning. What would I have done had I not gone there? I need to find the depth of cold and bury myself. Deeper than before when I was blocked from reality by the most frail piece of ice, quickly melted and warmed. I need an arctic tundra.

Then all my whimsy wants will slowly freeze over and disappear.

But the problem is, my compass is broken. My wants are too fresh and ingrained. Treasured memories, my prized possessions, a series of epistolaries, that make me cry heatedly each time I examine them, as if I can’t will myself to stop. I repeatedly mimic Pandora, opening the box that contain his words –  curiosity mingled with masochism, and always close it just before hope escapes.

Like Helen he taught me to rhyme, so now I can talk to myself.

A few scattered images are all I have left, but in my mind there is so much more, intact, unwilling to be frozen out. I waited for him to reciprocate, to glance, but he never turned around.

I long for the pleasant outings, the chance of becoming beautiful for someone, the conversations that escalated, the laughing, and joking, the walking. Like a small fairy sprite I want to play… I long for him, and remember his touch and taste, and how yes I said yes I will yes, and… he said no.

He doesn’t want to play.

Then some nights I cry out for him… and then others just cry.

And each morning vow to move to Iceland.

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