I am questioning what I'm doing in this relationship. I don't think that I'm particularly attracted to men who need things. I don't like this part of him. I don't like the power dynamics that we're acting out. I don't like taking care of everything...
There certainly are gratifying parts of it--that way I get to be a saint to all his friends and family...but I'm not so attached to it.
I've never thought of myself as an unusually nurturing person...perhaps I'm a little excessively compassionate or empathetic...maybe it's the same thing. I've always liked to be able to find the people who were crazy and see what was beautiful about them...see the intelligence or creativity that was beneath the surface.
With him, though, it's different, and it always was different. I don't want to take care of him. I mean, I do...but it's a side effect of a greater feeling. I LOVE him. I love his smell, his skin...I want to be with the man who I fell in love with...the man who is so talented at making things beautiful. The beautiful man with skin like silk and wonderful hair all over his body and who touches me in ways that are so beautiful I can't explain.
Water, though, has broken my heart for years, for all the years I've been battering myself against this love for him. Something about the smell of water, moving water, reminded me of him when we weren't together. And something in the smell of seasons changing, like the first breath of fall or spring...the smells came with associations, and the associations always lead me to him. Any depth or height of feeling took me to him...this love I've carried for him has been at the root of every move I've made for years. I'd think of him in Manhattan where Broadway met the river, or in Jersey at the park with the Statue of Liberty, at the beach near my mother's house, near the graveyard by the river where I grew up.
That's why I don't leave. I'll just leave to want him. I don't want him in this incarnation, but I want him. I love him like the greatest lovers of all time have loved each other. I love him like the love in poems, like "I know a woman, lovely in her bones"...like "in my arms till break of day, let the living creature lie, mortal, guilty, and to me, the entirely beautiful." I love him like Auden could love, and Rilke...I love him like those cups, raised to lovers lips, drinking one past another, like grapes rottening on the vine, like yes I said and yes I will and yes...he is my Maude, my model, my muse...
NOW is when I'm young, and miserable, and pretty, and poor, and my wish is for him. I won't give it up. Not yet.