jubalharshaw

I love her. I wanted to show love they way I would want it shown to me: touches, kisses. The secret's out: I'm a cuddler. Yes, I'm a sexual guy, but I wanted to bring her pleasure. It weirded me out so much that she didn't care about oral sex, not caring if it was performed, nor would she perform it. I really wanted to, but I was so scared because I read that oral sex was something that should only be given if returned. It frightened me, her response. I love her. I wasn't teasing her about that orgasm, and I wasn't bragging, either. I really was happy, and even turned on, to do that for her. If I had understood then the pressure that I put her under, I wouldn't have. I love her.

I love her. The things I said to her sometimes...I was insecure. I had learned all too well that nice guys finished last, and I didn't want to lose this one. I love her. I tried to say the thing that the asshole who got the girl would say, or I'd just be so nervous that I wouldn't know how to react. I was out of my element, after all. I loved her. ...but it wasn't enough.

I love her. At times I wouldn't know what to say. She had been exposed to things I didn't know about. I loved that about her. I didn't get everything all the time though. I wish we could have shared more things together. But it made me distant, not knowing how to react. I wanted to know, I wanted to be close....

I scorned her for being an english major. It was leaking issues with my brother, the english major. It wasn't about her. I love her for what she does, for what she's passionate about. This intelligent woman who is filled with passion, who seeks out, achieves and surrounds hersoulf with this passion, these experiences. It's so very sexy. I love her for this. I never told her. I wish I had.

Once, I told her I love her. I tried to gloss over it, pretend I hadn't let that out. She didn't notice, or pretended not to have heard it. I wish I could have boldly told her so. I love her. I was afraid. I loved this great, smart, funny, wonderful and pretty woman, and I was so afraid of her rejection, of losing her (if I ever had her), of not having her in my life. I love her. Maybe it's a mistake. I don't know if she loved me, I don't think she did. I wonder if she cared for me. Was I a rebound? A fling? Just convenient? I wish I knew, I wish I had known. It is and was such a source of pain and conflict. To so be in love with someone who says you aren't dating? I meet her friends. I kiss her into the twilight before dawn. She becomes a part of me. Am I to risk losing this part of me at any turn? It was hard, but I love her.

Losing her. I just read in my psychology book that there's observable behavior in infants where some don't form close relationships with their parents later in life over-worry about rejection, and "fail to seek others' support in times of distress." I fell into a deep depression. I loved her, but I didn't call her or talk to her for 3 weeks. I wanted to, but depression stopped me. I thought about her. I want to call her, I couldn't. Finally, she called. I came over. It was over. She was so distant. She couldn't touch me. It hurt so bad. So, so bad. She didn't say anything, you just knew. It was the pink elephant in the corner, stabbing at me from afar. Perhaps one of the greatest pains of my life. I couldn't cope, I didn't know how. I was still so bad in depression, I was so hopeful when she called; the crash was even worse. I made her hurt like I was hurting, and I hated it. I didn't want to do it, I wished she would throw me out. I tried to get her to throw me out. I hated myself for it. I immediately wanted to apologize, to make things better, to make things right. How could I? She could never forgive me, no, not for what I had done. And it was decided. There was someone else already. I had to accept it.

I wanted to be over her. I loved her still. It hurt. Time did not drag her from my thoughts. Other women did not match up to her, nor could they make me forget her. I love her. Could time heal her, make her forget enough that we might start over, that there might be a second chance? I had asked her what she thought of him, when I left her: she said he was good. I believed that if you loved something you set it free; if you love her, you want her to be happy. Pretty words, camoflaged in half-truth: I love her, I want her to be happy. I'm in love with her, I want her to be happy with me, together, sharing.

I love her. Did she know that? Did she think that I was there only to use her? Did she know that my caresses were tokens of my love, that my pushes were insecurities, misguided but not malevolent? That I never wanted to harm her? Did she think I was only there for a piece of ass? She once told me that tried to think that, but couldn't quite convince her. I had taken that for fact, of course I wasn't. I should have talked to her, made her sure and confident. Our last night before the break, baking brownies, waiting, talking on the bed. When I kissed her, she asked what made me so frisky. Did she think I was trying to get in her pants? I couldn't answer. I didn't want to. It was too corny, too cheesy to believe; she would think it was a line. How could I, so insecure, explain to her that she was so awesome, so wonderful, that to be in her presence, talking and laying close to her was an irresistable aphrodesiac, that I loved her and thought she was so awesome that I had to kiss her? I couldn't contain my love, affection, and adoration for her. I love her.

I know more now. I understand myself more, I understand others more. I know now that I knew so little, that I know so little now. But I'm reading to learn, open, and I want to - with her.

She is my muse. When I tell her of my composing, of my nights staying up with instruments dueling in my head, am I bragging? Perhaps, a bit. But I'm trying to tell her, "You are my muse. You are the violin and the harp in my head. You are the clarinet, my trumpet, the timpani. You are the orchestra in my head! Even literally you unlock and send soaring parts of my soul that I only dream of. You unlock my music, and like music, I need you."

"More, you complete me. Is this trite? Are these the wrong words? Yes. You give me a strength, a balance, a joy that releases me, freeing me and propelling me to become, to fully realize who I am and explore myself, my passions and the world around me. Perhaps you are Joy, herself."

I love her. Should I let her go? Will she be happy without me? Is she better off with the man she is with now? Will she be happier? Maybe she is better off. Maybe with me, with my imperfect nature, with my mistakes, she would feel more pain. Would she feel more love? More joy, more happiness? I would like to think so. I think so. I know I would, but sure answers are the baliwick of Fate, and her secrets she guards tightly. Only by doing would that be known. I fear that pleasant road of discovery is blocked from me now.

I love her. I miss her. I wonder if I can move on from her. I wonder if I want to.

I love you. I miss you. Incapable of tears, I cry for you.