We all know the feeling. We see her, our knees crumble. We hear her voice, our hearts begin to race. She fills our minds with her thoughts, her fears, and her dreams. She occupies our thoughts, inspires our intentions, and raises our frequency to levels we rarely see.
We all know her. She is beautiful, and her eyes make us swoon even as we try to keep our composure. Her mouth makes just the right curves when she smiles, and her image sends us flying into the outer edges of our Universe. She sets the bar, and we will always seek to meet it.
I know her well. I’ve talked to her countless times about many things, some meaningful and some benign. She’s inspired words I’ve etched words into the fabric of my day, and give life to inspiration that have brought many to tears of joy. My god, there is so much life to knowing her, and so much a truth to the utter sense of all she is.
Yet, there is nothing I can do.
Sure, I could be the bad ass in the room and feign indignation. I could act like I don’t care, that the moments we share have only the slightest meeting. I could tune down my intensity, resist my own desire, and pretend that her wine has a bitter taste, and her words a shallow impression.
That’s silly. There’s nothing I can do.
I could be “the man”, and act like she doesn’t matter the way she does. I could hold back on the strings of truth I send in her direction, the pearls of wisdom I give her as a gift when we converse. I could do so many things…
…and then I realize, there is nothing I can do.
I can’t make her run to my open arms no matter what my version of truth may be. I can’t make her call me in the middle of the night just tell me all her pains. I can’t force her to do a fucking thing, and for that I am grateful.
You see, there is nothing I can do.
That is the way it should be. I should adore her where she is, regardless of the tears that well up within me at our distance. I should honor the spaces where she struggles, despite my want to carry her through the smoke. I should smile as I always have when she finds her loves, be there when she has her pains, and let her know that there will always be someone there when all else fails.
Wait, perhaps there is something I can do after all.
Despite my story wishing things were different, that for once a heart was in tune with mine, and that the timing was perfect for a resurrection of my hope, there is always something I can do. I can accept the pangs of hurt, of remembrance, that whittle their way through my flesh and change my point of view. My truth is not a universal one, and there is no one who need ever hold my hand.
In the meadow where I go, in the brook that bubbles by my ears as my eyes shut to see the Universe, I realize a certain truth. I am a lover. A hard-scrabbled, complex, rough around the edges lover. All that I can do has already been done, and now all I can do is, well, nothing. Except that something.