Listening to Sarah Jaffe’s Summer Begs…
Somewhere someone’s sleeping
Somewhere someone’s weeping
Somewhere someone’s listening
To the sound of a record spinning
I cannot count the number of hours I spent awake, at work, or trying to busy myself, knowing it was too late / too early there, He would be busy, He would be asleep.. Trying to quiet my mind, trying to slow down my heart, knowing He will not come online. I try to fool myself that it is the time zones, our forever enemy, that keeps me from Him, that keeps us from being able to synch. But sometimes, the nights are particularly long, and toss around in the suffocating emptiness of my bed, knowing I should really go to sleep, as He is too busy to join me. Sometimes, I take a reality check, and I admit that the extra two hours difference is not really the problem. My frustration wells up, I am unable to keep it at bay for days and nights on end, and my tears find a way to escape through my tightly closed eyelids. I cry, and I begin to loathe myself for my weakness, for being so dependent, for being so sensitive, for my inability to accept that life is a harsh slap in the face.
Then, tomorrow, I go to bed again, my phone informing me it’s nearing 3AM again – and I know that despite my attempts to stay awake in hope of the off chance that He might finish ‘early’, that He might seek me out, I will fall asleep listening to the monotone static of a stormy night or a proper thunderstorm on youtube, the background noise drowning out my insomniac daydreams at dawn. And the day after, I repeat the whole process again.
Hold it right there
I don’t wanna move
And summer it begs
It begs us to prove
That we can last
Just one more season
And that there
Gives me a reason
I remember the sound of His voice in my ears, the way He whispered sweet nothings as He navigated through the busy streets and morning traffic, His accent thick but His words unfaltering. I remember lying in bed, lazy and content, a smile permanently painted on my face, and my hand slid underneath the covers, my fingers travelled the route down my body that I wanted Him to embark on. It was a lovely summer, for me at least. I woke up to His voice, and I went to bed to with His messages, only one hour apart, the closest we’ve ever been. For Him, that summer was the first of many later and longer separations to come from the wee ones, and I felt guilty for wanting the summer to linger, for enjoying His availability, for liking the fact that I had His time and attention.
I still think about that summer, and how we came together, almost unnoticed, as a perfectly normal progression of our relationship, while in reality, nothing was normal or at least long lived about it.
Secrets are for keeping
That’s what gives them their meaning
It’s your certain proclamation
And it needs no explanation
Now, as the fourth anniversary of our chance encounter approaches, I think about all the ups and downs we went through, the unexpected peaks, the steadily built hills, and the desperate hitting of the breaks as we speed downhill.
I have come to terms with being the other woman, although the term seems to parody itself when I try to apply it to my case – how can I be anyone in particular if my whole existence is denied, hidden, erased when needed. When a thousand miles is the closest we’ve ever been, when all I am is a wannabe thought experiment of what if.
I for one am willing
To stay here until you’re willing
Maybe you’re not ready
To handle something steady.
Four years of dreaming, wishing, planning. Four years of waiting, hoping, lingering.
I try to hold on to pieces of my dreams of how good it could be, pieces of memories of how good it has been. My clutch turns white in the effort, my pleas desperate, pathetic, unrequited, unwanted.
I cannot give Him what He wants – openness, cybersex and pretty words. He cannot give me what I want – companionship, passion even in times of adversity, a future. I can see a possible ‘solution’, a potentially positive outcome that results in all our wishes becoming true, as much as I understand them. And I’ve been holding on, holding out, for that potential.
I only wish it was true. I only wish He could see it too. I only wish we could get there.