When we met, we were young. So young. I had had a few test runs for romance, fiddly and hampered though they were, and I was confident that I at least knew how it should feel to be in love. I seemed always to be in love in those days. My lonely desert was more mirage than sands, but nevertheless I trusted that I would know my Helen by the look on her face when the appointed time came.
Until then, success was bound to be as easy as counting the years by the notches on my bedpost. After starting teenage life as something of a social wreck, I made some cool friends, went to a few cool parties, took more than a handful of extremely cool drugs, clumsily tongued one or two enviable conquests, and at eighteen – mouth full of slang, crown of shabby dreadlocks – I envisioned myself a man.
In reality I was just a sex-starved boy, already infatuated with my own fledgling legend. Destiny owed me a heavy debt. The air surrounding me was hot, and I day-dreamed of adventure. My love was that of a lunatic beggar to a voluptuous cake.
Soon I learned. My spurious pride scraped away, exigence unpicked by pain, after all it would be you – your elusive silhouette – that showed me what it meant to be a man. In memories replayed until time’s friction frayed their evanescent edges, you would continue to teach me long after we parted ways. Do you know? How could I ever tell you? All these years later, I still wonder, what is it that I showed you in return?
It wasn’t when we first sampled each other’s desirous gaze that my metamorphosis took place. Not at 2 a.m. when I walked you home and we shared that timeless kiss beneath the streetlight, aglow at the crossroads of our youth. It didn’t happen the night you graciously relieved me of my virginity, nor on your birthday when my rapacious lust blinded me to your discontent. Not when in retrospect I recognised the disapproving glances of your friends, or perceived the silent refusal in your mother’s eyes. Not even when you sat on the edge of my bed and calmly explained that your future no longer held an opening for me.
After it all, I remained adrift in adolescence for what felt like years but could only have been months, knowing only the sour embrace of dope and the phoney wisdom of self-pity. Then at last, the realisation came. Deep in my purgatorial throes I witnessed with great clarity the crucial truth that I had never known you, the real You, and I never would. A dolorous ache, like growing pains, crept into my bones, and I began to revise.
The You I knew was perfect, impossibly perfect. I felt only sublime disbelief at the serendipity of our union, as if a unicorn or blessed nymph had gingerly wandered into my little garden and chosen to stay. You were a prize, an idol, the perfect form of femininity, your affections my reward for a life determined (ha!). In intimate moments, glossy strands of fate’s beguiling tapestry interwove the hair which fell about your face, framed by quaking hands and soft slope of stomach in a visage of voracious ecstasy; that numinous expression, so far beyond description. The appointed time had surely come.
Your wit and perspicacity humbled me. I felt so stupid next to you in a delirious, rapt sort of way. Even after our first few tremulous months, I remained perpetually stunned (and stoned), nervous that you might realise your mistake and take flight at any second. I’ve always been a fanciful agoniser like that (although I suppose that is what happened, in the end).
I saw my future in your smile, the promised land between your thighs. Supreme attainment echoed in the melodies of your laughter. Mystic forces drew our minds and bodies together as though by some antediluvian prophecy. There was no question that we were meant to be, when you reflected my best self back at me so brightly. That blinding light was all that I would ever need. Despite my insecurities, it was obvious to me that the same would be true in reverse. It had to be.
Of course, we were doomed. With a beam in my eye, I failed to notice as the fountainhead of our passion turned to sand. I should have seen the way my tedious teenage libido eroded your respect for me. How could I miss the hunger on your lips transform into chagrin as I tried to entertain you like a guest, caressed you like a pet? Where was I looking when the signals of your suffering passed me by? What wonderfully flawed, curiously incomplete, verisimilitous You did I obscure with my piteous projections?
What dull, incognizant, languorous Me did you come to know while I was overawed? For years I was haunted by the shadow of that Me, the saboteur of eudaimonia. He trails me ever in my weakest moments, a clueless ape screaming blame and sin, compelling my feet futureward for shame of the past.
I wonder with what meritorious Me you hoped to connect when we danced drunkenly after the break-up, that last and only time we danced. At our final touch, I could feel the anguished grasp of your mind, begging me to do something. Do what?
Enough. I’ve already said far too much. We were young, after all. Who cares? Isn’t it sad to dwell like this on events so long forgotten? Perhaps it is, but don’t get the wrong idea. I pulled the shards out long ago, and since my life has overflowed with love. My heart brims as it always has with hope and wonder. However, when I sit and survey my journey through this world, I can’t help but think of you – the mysterious You, the You who’s out there somewhere (possibly reading these words right now), who resides forever in the blindspot of my being.
It may not sound like it, but I cherish these memories of mine, time-worn and treacherous as they may be. I feel proud not just of them but of the distance I’ve travelled since they were made. I believe in a different kind of fate now. As foolish as it is, I wonder if you think of me too from time to time, but above all I thank you from the depths of my heart for helping me to destroy that unseeing boy – the young Me who was capable of neglecting you.
Do you too look back and wish to change what you see?
If you held the pen, what words would you give me?
All that we were and the things we’ll never be,
Dark pearl at the heart of my life in memory.
Written and published – November 2023
Image by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash
Anxious Planet 