I (re)bid farewell to a Sailor,
then I stacked wood and cried.
I was tempted to talk to a Sailor,
so I swept the deck and cried.
I pined for the touch of a Sailor,
but remembered my heart and cried.
I ached for the wit’n winks of a Sailor,
so I ran the stairs and cried.
I re-read fond words from a Sailor,
wanted to burn them and cried, cause they’re in my damn phone and lappy!
I remembered the ‘delete’ features of modern technology,
smiled wistfully at self and realized holy shit I’m a grown up,
And then I laughed and laughed,
‘cause it’s all such a fucking ride!
There is something so much less satisfying about a more grown up perspective to romance, love, sex and knowing more about how we work, and don’t. Acting in my own best interest, despite the requisite pangs I know it brings is sad, because there is something a little more self-righteously gratifying, in the immediate discomfort of the moment, to childishly expounding on another’s un-virtuous behaviour, than in owning one’s own. Knowing, accepting, that I went into something that probably wouldn’t work for me over the longer term, but being willing to have a go anyway, eyes truly wide open, is so damned mature, that I’m angry about it because it takes away the previously noted gratification of stomping my (fifty)six-year old feet. Someday, other than this one, I will publish the (for real) ‘Dear John’ letter (yeah, I did that) and other correspondence associated with this most grown up parting of ways, for it holds all kinds of ‘interesting’ in relation to the psychology of love and the human folly of romance, but for now;
Against all odds and my own attempts at not, I am Adulting today. Who fucking knew?
Momentarily dry-eyed and temporarily in my right mind,
~Marcela: maturely unfiltered.
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