Tipsy and heartsick topsy-turvy. I spend the evening with an ex-boyfriend in order not to think about the ex-girlfriend. Talk about a coping mechanism. Just shoot me now.
Twelve hours left in the city of rain and there are stars like little fires visible through the branches of the cherry tree in this SE Portland backyard. It’s been four weeks of redefining boundaries, of staring at my own naked heart and trying to decipher love from lust, love from nostalgia, love from sickness, love from sympathy, love from compassion. I cannot say I necessarily have more answers than when I came. I have more life experience and I am not the same writer I was when I left. I am not the same lover, either.
Bring me the real deal and nothing in between. This, my new mantra for love and for the writing life. I have no patience for mediocrity unless it is going to somehow help me get where I want to go, love who I want to love, and be loved by someone I deserve to be loved by.