Dearest darling,
Yes, I do actually know what it means to be on call. I was raised by doctors, I know all about that. On call means you carry an electronic tether at your waist, clipped to your belt like some ancient-looking cell phone. Mobile, yet anchored somewhere else. On call means that you're never really there with me, a robotic beeping could start up at any second and take you away, leaving me disjointed and at odds with the situation. On call means "I'm sorry, but..."
You don't need to explain the basic logistics to me as if I were a five year old. It's been twenty years, and I can still vividly remember those oversimplifications; they were intended to dull the pain, to misdirect the bewilderment. I understand. My feelings of abandonment are wrong, I shouldn't feel this way because you're just doing your job. This was clear from the beginning. This was the understanding from the start, that caveat.
There's always some caveat with you. You'll never give yourself over to me, you'll never let go. I'll never be priority number one, at least not for more than one night at a time, that is. I thought I knew what I was getting into, I thought I was comfortable with this. I didn't count on the loneliness. It's not loneliness born of being perpetually alone, it's the loneliness that strikes in the middle of the night when you utter a single wrong word during your kisses, it's the loneliness that preys on my mind when a beeping preys on my affection. The loneliness that fulfills my expectations but dashes my dreams.
I wanted an easy out with you, but I wanted to be in control of it. I can let you go, I don't need you, that was never the issue. But I want you. I was so eager to spend the slightest amount of time with you, I've waited all week for this, but I have to accept that I might be left with gaping holes in my day, holes devoid of your saccharine caress. My plans fall through those black holes, their gravity weakening the bonds that sustain my joy. Delight disintegrates and slips through my fingers. No amount of foreshadowing, no amount of clarity can ever prepare me for this. Every time, it's always the same.
I know where the door is; we made sure to paint it neon fucking fuchsia and line it with sparklers, the path there is lined with airplane aisle lights. It draws me far more strongly than you'll ever be able to push me away. Isn't that why it's there in the first place?
Yes, I do actually know what it means to be on call. I was raised by doctors, I know all about that. On call means you carry an electronic tether at your waist, clipped to your belt like some ancient-looking cell phone. Mobile, yet anchored somewhere else. On call means that you're never really there with me, a robotic beeping could start up at any second and take you away, leaving me disjointed and at odds with the situation. On call means "I'm sorry, but..."
You don't need to explain the basic logistics to me as if I were a five year old. It's been twenty years, and I can still vividly remember those oversimplifications; they were intended to dull the pain, to misdirect the bewilderment. I understand. My feelings of abandonment are wrong, I shouldn't feel this way because you're just doing your job. This was clear from the beginning. This was the understanding from the start, that caveat.
There's always some caveat with you. You'll never give yourself over to me, you'll never let go. I'll never be priority number one, at least not for more than one night at a time, that is. I thought I knew what I was getting into, I thought I was comfortable with this. I didn't count on the loneliness. It's not loneliness born of being perpetually alone, it's the loneliness that strikes in the middle of the night when you utter a single wrong word during your kisses, it's the loneliness that preys on my mind when a beeping preys on my affection. The loneliness that fulfills my expectations but dashes my dreams.
I wanted an easy out with you, but I wanted to be in control of it. I can let you go, I don't need you, that was never the issue. But I want you. I was so eager to spend the slightest amount of time with you, I've waited all week for this, but I have to accept that I might be left with gaping holes in my day, holes devoid of your saccharine caress. My plans fall through those black holes, their gravity weakening the bonds that sustain my joy. Delight disintegrates and slips through my fingers. No amount of foreshadowing, no amount of clarity can ever prepare me for this. Every time, it's always the same.
I know where the door is; we made sure to paint it neon fucking fuchsia and line it with sparklers, the path there is lined with airplane aisle lights. It draws me far more strongly than you'll ever be able to push me away. Isn't that why it's there in the first place?
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