It’s raining in New Zealand. This is ok. It’s summer and the town is popping with old friends all saying “welcome home!” so I reveled and curled up in all that goodness. But then a ghost put it’s cold mouth over mine. A ghost of intimacy. A man who still lives here. Which was something I could lose sight of when I was there. Now here is not the here it was for us. Once. So all the hereness is colored by that. That foray into something you knew wouldn’t work but you were caught up in here’s impetuous sister: here and now.
And why, always, no matter what, no matter who, no matter how much time passes, and how many blessings are sent, does it always feels like crap when you hear that he is with someone new? You don’t love him and you wouldn’t wish yourself on him. But you don’t want to be alone. And that is where you always end up. And him not alone just makes your alone stand out in sharper relief. Against the sheets of rain.
But you chose that. Alone is where you would rather be than somewhere that feels too tight, too lopsided, too undefined, too rhetorical. You own this alone. Good. Yes.
This is the rain talking. Rain and airplanes. That has been my week.
Single white female ISO sunshine. Here. Wherever i am.