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ambitious_womanFrom various journals, across a great many times....
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again. It is I that set him aside, after all. I that sought to fill his arms with the brightest, beautiful distraction I might find. But it was never lost on me just how much it felt like I was auditioning an actress for the newest pages written by the latest sensation. There is such a thing as too bright, and too beautiful, and the artificiality of the arrangement bothers me far more than it should. Perhaps, if I am most honest, because I see myself there. I was blessed with every advantage, a superior education. I had no doubt where I would find myself in some six months time, but I was unprepared for who I would find as well. The man that was less than the one I had loved for sixteen years and more complicated than anything anyone might suspect. He reached through it all. Though me certainties and the education his own keepers had insisted I receive. Through preconception and misconception. He reached through it all to hold only me, myself. Naked and bare. Even, it must be said, when I was not able to offer him the comfort he needed most. Still, he held me. He knew me. How could I not wish to know that again?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again. He was so small. So small. And it seemed to my eyes that he grew even smaller still with each breath, slipping away while I watched. Helpless to prevent what the entire household accepted as the inevitable. What I, to my shame, accepted as the inevitable as well.
Forgive me.
What might it like to kiss him once more. Older and straighter and stronger so that he might recognize the embraces origin. He never knew, was never allowed to know. For him it was only touch. A want for protection, and a keening cry. It was never allowed to mature into that need for comfort. A need for me.
For his mother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
But I have no need for kisses now, and I suspect that neither does he.
I shall write a letter instead. It seems far more productive, I think.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
I sent him away. I could not know then that it would be part of a pattern that I must now reflect upon. It was not the right time, he was not the right man. Nor could I deny the one that awaited my return in the halls behind us. So many men that day, and an almost infinite amount of choices. The one I made that day, if calculated, was at least delivered as cleanly as I could manage. For even though he was just known to me, there was an understanding between us. Enough of one that I refused to manipulate him. And let there be no uncertainty on this subject. That girl, in that time, would have manipulated him. And I feared that he was besotted enough to allow it. So I kissed him briefly, and bid him farewell.
An infinite amount of choices, yes. But did I make the right one?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
If only to better understand the amused expression that graced his features afterwards.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
He does not know me now. He might wish to know me better, but that is not nearly the same thing. I do not tell him of what passed between us because that what I do. It is, it seems, who I am. There is a great amount of evidence to support that particular certainty. How many have I loved, only to let go? I wonder if it is my way of proving the common opinion wrong, the voices that claimed to have no care for. If I am a woman created for and of love, what then does it mean when I shun it? That they are wrong, and that I am right? It feels neither simple nor right, but it does feel like me. Which is in turn the women that we loved. Sometimes it is not a single thing we look upon in our injury that is the double-edged sword. It is not the object or person, but the absence of both.
It is the space that is created between.
But I will not tell him. He has his life, again, and that is how it should be. It is a path I have walked twice before. A path that was never merely slow. It and I were always a great deal more than that. But I have never attempted to deny my temper, and so the path was singularly named.
But I loved on that path. Loved well, it must be said. And so I cannot regret it. It, or my decision now.
If I kissed him again, would he know me then? Or would it merely be a familiar taste upon his lips. Favorable, just just as hard to place as the scent I still wear? No, he would not remember I think. I am too far gone. He is happy. There is nothing truly to be gained.
And I refuse to be an echo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She wonders what it might be like to kiss him again. The fireplace is there, before them. And Reinette does not need a connection to decipher the mutual memories that now fill her room. The bed stands between them and it and for a moment both of their eyes are upon it as well. A new place to embrace, and be embraced in return. Her hand holds onto his own, tension curling her fingers as she is the one to linger. Remaining even as he pulls away.
But it is that look and that curiosity and that joy. She cannot keep him here, no matter how her fingers might object.
Still, the fireplace is there and his profile is captured by it. It is almost one of a hundred thousand imagines of his Reinette has sure her mind has painted of him since their first encounter, so many years before. So yes. Yes, she thinks. Surely she deserves a kiss goodbye. There is a problem, however. How can this man who does not know he is leaving express gratitude of any kind?
And it has been a great many years. Somehow her choice, now made, is aging her with an unexpected fierceness. With every step to meet him at the mantle Reinette feels that much older, that much slower than the man before her. There is an almost frantic need for his touch, his connection, so far behind them. She absolutely refuses to beg him to remain.
Those that thought Reinette brave when she faced the Clockwork Men should see her now, Reinette thinks.
He understands now that he is leaving.
He wishes for luck that she cannot find it in herself to give. Indeed she lowers herself enough to tell him just that.
Then he is gone. A reunion teases, almost like a dream that would follow after. But like most dreams, this one never materializes within the actual realm of day. Or night. His night sky, with all its stars. She never picked one, perhaps because she always knew.
And a kiss unshared instead of a kiss goodbye, Reinette bids him farewell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again. It is I that set him aside, after all. I that sought to fill his arms with the brightest, beautiful distraction I might find. But it was never lost on me just how much it felt like I was auditioning an actress for the newest pages written by the latest sensation. There is such a thing as too bright, and too beautiful, and the artificiality of the arrangement bothers me far more than it should. Perhaps, if I am most honest, because I see myself there. I was blessed with every advantage, a superior education. I had no doubt where I would find myself in some six months time, but I was unprepared for who I would find as well. The man that was less than the one I had loved for sixteen years and more complicated than anything anyone might suspect. He reached through it all. Though me certainties and the education his own keepers had insisted I receive. Through preconception and misconception. He reached through it all to hold only me, myself. Naked and bare. Even, it must be said, when I was not able to offer him the comfort he needed most. Still, he held me. He knew me. How could I not wish to know that again?
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again. He was so small. So small. And it seemed to my eyes that he grew even smaller still with each breath, slipping away while I watched. Helpless to prevent what the entire household accepted as the inevitable. What I, to my shame, accepted as the inevitable as well.
Forgive me.
What might it like to kiss him once more. Older and straighter and stronger so that he might recognize the embraces origin. He never knew, was never allowed to know. For him it was only touch. A want for protection, and a keening cry. It was never allowed to mature into that need for comfort. A need for me.
For his mother.
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
But I have no need for kisses now, and I suspect that neither does he.
I shall write a letter instead. It seems far more productive, I think.
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
I sent him away. I could not know then that it would be part of a pattern that I must now reflect upon. It was not the right time, he was not the right man. Nor could I deny the one that awaited my return in the halls behind us. So many men that day, and an almost infinite amount of choices. The one I made that day, if calculated, was at least delivered as cleanly as I could manage. For even though he was just known to me, there was an understanding between us. Enough of one that I refused to manipulate him. And let there be no uncertainty on this subject. That girl, in that time, would have manipulated him. And I feared that he was besotted enough to allow it. So I kissed him briefly, and bid him farewell.
An infinite amount of choices, yes. But did I make the right one?
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
If only to better understand the amused expression that graced his features afterwards.
I must admit, I often wonder what it would be like to kiss him again.
He does not know me now. He might wish to know me better, but that is not nearly the same thing. I do not tell him of what passed between us because that what I do. It is, it seems, who I am. There is a great amount of evidence to support that particular certainty. How many have I loved, only to let go? I wonder if it is my way of proving the common opinion wrong, the voices that claimed to have no care for. If I am a woman created for and of love, what then does it mean when I shun it? That they are wrong, and that I am right? It feels neither simple nor right, but it does feel like me. Which is in turn the women that we loved. Sometimes it is not a single thing we look upon in our injury that is the double-edged sword. It is not the object or person, but the absence of both.
It is the space that is created between.
But I will not tell him. He has his life, again, and that is how it should be. It is a path I have walked twice before. A path that was never merely slow. It and I were always a great deal more than that. But I have never attempted to deny my temper, and so the path was singularly named.
But I loved on that path. Loved well, it must be said. And so I cannot regret it. It, or my decision now.
If I kissed him again, would he know me then? Or would it merely be a familiar taste upon his lips. Favorable, just just as hard to place as the scent I still wear? No, he would not remember I think. I am too far gone. He is happy. There is nothing truly to be gained.
And I refuse to be an echo.
She wonders what it might be like to kiss him again. The fireplace is there, before them. And Reinette does not need a connection to decipher the mutual memories that now fill her room. The bed stands between them and it and for a moment both of their eyes are upon it as well. A new place to embrace, and be embraced in return. Her hand holds onto his own, tension curling her fingers as she is the one to linger. Remaining even as he pulls away.
But it is that look and that curiosity and that joy. She cannot keep him here, no matter how her fingers might object.
Still, the fireplace is there and his profile is captured by it. It is almost one of a hundred thousand imagines of his Reinette has sure her mind has painted of him since their first encounter, so many years before. So yes. Yes, she thinks. Surely she deserves a kiss goodbye. There is a problem, however. How can this man who does not know he is leaving express gratitude of any kind?
And it has been a great many years. Somehow her choice, now made, is aging her with an unexpected fierceness. With every step to meet him at the mantle Reinette feels that much older, that much slower than the man before her. There is an almost frantic need for his touch, his connection, so far behind them. She absolutely refuses to beg him to remain.
Those that thought Reinette brave when she faced the Clockwork Men should see her now, Reinette thinks.
He understands now that he is leaving.
He wishes for luck that she cannot find it in herself to give. Indeed she lowers herself enough to tell him just that.
Then he is gone. A reunion teases, almost like a dream that would follow after. But like most dreams, this one never materializes within the actual realm of day. Or night. His night sky, with all its stars. She never picked one, perhaps because she always knew.
And a kiss unshared instead of a kiss goodbye, Reinette bids him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
I bid him farewell.
