An Uncommitment

I know what it is not. It’s not forever. It’s not love. It’s not romance. It’s not even an obsession.

At best, it’s a preoccupation. An anticipation preceding the awareness when we meet. An amble through shared vignettes and thoughts that makes time fly so effortlessly. My engagement in each encounter is complete even as I hover overhead watching us talk. We sometimes lay bare details of our lives previously unexposed and it’s so seductive to be allowed in. The deeper rhythm of our separate lives seems to have an oddly preordained synchrony as though we were supposed to come together now for a wavelength or two.

I am unable to define it as a transgression – as though our prior association conveniently grandfathered in an exception clause! I contrive to create elegant excuses – nay! opportunities! – to meet again without seeming too needy. It’s a sham.I yearn to see you so even though you cautioned “I’ve been here before. After 4-5 times, it fades”.  Perhaps. But, this is where I am now and I want to be here. Greedily, I wish to grab the moments and share them. Can’t you do the same? Take me as I am now and be present with me.

Like pugilists at a prize fight, we return to our corners to lead our “regular” lives – to fulfill our responsibilities as partners, parents and individuals till we get together again and suspend all that. There is a gap in the weave of our individual fabric that’s brought us here.  I don’t ask for promises and offer none in return.

The very aspects that lend stability and longevity to a life partnership –  familiarity, acceptance, deep love – can, ironically, fade romance and desire.  I wish to feel the ache that romance brings – tangible evidence of desirability. I don’t wish to hurt anyone. Just that in addition to playing the roles of mother, daughter, partner and colleague and in spite of facial character lines and softening body, I wish to feel gloriously feminine again.

You do not share my emotional state. You definitely view this more transactionally. You sound curiously jaded and sad as though it’s all just a little out of reach. You wear the “Very few strings attached” label quite defiantly.  I accept that. In turn, allow yourself to accept that I am different and that we’re fun together. It’s not a stretch.

When we look back on it, it will be a delicious layer in our atypical long-term relationship. So, seek out my company, poke fun at my quirks and enjoy me.


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