We were clearly more than friends, but less than partners, still speaking every day, airing our grievances, but unable to be anything like what we had been. I encouraged him when he got down; he told me how I was free to go, he would understand, but he also told me what missing me did to him. I don’t know what to say about the impulse which led we who were poly to chase a behaviour that the monogamous have all but perfected. All I can say is that I admit that my jealousy for his time and his attention was strong.
Growing up religious in my town, it was impossible not to hear about The Five Love Languages. Though I am constantly forgetting the others, I know mine very well. As a writer, expressing myself has always seemed a need of the highest importance to me, though as a multimedia storyteller, communicating without words has always been just as valuable to me as speech.
Who can say what it was, the way she smiled at me or the way I made her laugh, the name we shared or the ease with which we smoked together or the fact that our accents intrigued one another, that our tongues were drawn to each other like magnets.
My pattern is that of the ex-patriots, the heathens who know their own sins by the rigor and rules that once measured their lives. I did not catch my ideals from my mother. They were contracted elsewhere, as a balm for barrage of lessons of my childhood.