Dreams in which I am taken back are becoming more and more frequent. Waking up is a bitch. It was so pleasant, but why? Why am I torturing myself?
It ended with the scalpel precision. No major fights, no reconciliations, no make-up sex. It wasn't working for a long time, lamely, so we said goodbye, and that was that. (And it really should have happened a while ago.)
My natural distaste for reducing complicated things into digestible categories means I'll just have to remember the misshapen mess of all the aspects of our relationship in suspension, not forgetting everything that made me miserable, or the things that brought me joy.
But now my tired and lonely mind just wants to curl up in her soft motherly safety.
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