closing the curtains.

One day, I will look back on those mornings with a sort of resignation, a sort of dull and second-hand fulfillment.

The sun would come bursting through his window frames and we would just lie there, brushing each other's bodies and smiling. Of course, I don't ever kid myself that these mornings were always perfect. I would wake up grumpy. Sometimes, it would be far too cold. But thinking about his room fills me with a sense of child-like curiosity, of misadventure, of peace.

And I know that these feelings inside of that room do not translate to the ones I felt when I entered the outside world, when I was confronted with the dirt and stench of Los Angeles. That's how I know that our relationship sheltered me from the real world, from feeling anything real. While it was nice to pretend for a while that I was living in some sort of paradoxical bucolic urban landscape, I have to come to terms with the fact that a paradox is all that we could ever be: impossible, unattainable, shifting back and forth between two irreconcilable extremes.

So the sun needs to make its way back out of those windows for me. Night needs to fall for a little while (a time of rest, of renewal, of new beginnings). Though it might be dark, lonely and uncharted, I will live with the knowledge that there's got to be some kind of tomorrow.

So for now, I am trying to forget those mornings like they were pleasant dreams, the type that will never be realized. And even though I know that what we shared was raw and free and beautiful, I need to make a tomorrow for myself-- I need to let him go.