Lacking Better Definition (She Streams Conscious In Paragraphical Guilt)

And I tell myself it is nothing more than fabrication, than words and memories, slanted, slewed and separate from the obvious and crystalline individual I’ve come to know. I stand in the fact that the past is the past and we’ve shared as many as I can stand, and we both have our secrets, or pieces we rather not share because they don’t matter, they don’t haunt us and we like now, us, besides the stains on leather couches and frozen fingertips ducked behind buildings, on visible breath autumn nights.
Its been a year now since it started, since it ended, since you came and slowly slipped into my life. You were persistent and heady. We were like tides that came crashing and then receded, so I was often left to wonder where you’d gone, although I’d grumble at how much you’d crash when you were there. In and out, a metaphor and reality. Mismatched socks and bear-like personality. I felt small and pristine in your arms, I’d often imagine crowns on my head and a world of sparkles, and you fur and teeth, pressured desire, untamed but with sweet intentions.
And to what extent wasn’t I a prize to be won. A challenge to be met, a stubborn journey on your part, to let yourself be washed up and down my moody shores, my secret getaways, my lie of a life, that threatened institution and sanity. I trampled on my education, the construct of marriage, I lived off coffee and guilt and worked constantly, twelve hours a day, nothing but production and sadness, some vile creature. Cruel and successful, who couldn’t tell a soul but you, of the terrible things she’d done.
And I couldn’t give into you, couldn’t separate and settle myself, I’d lost myself somewhere in the frost bitten nights and twelve hour days. I kept you at edges and only gave in when I was so tired, so tired, I couldn’t feel the sadness. And you were always there, midnight, trying to fall asleep so we could share the pillow.
I threw myself around, tried lesser, tried greater, tried escape, but couldn’t leave, couldn’t retreat, had to return and so did you. You brought voo-doo with you. And I suppose you had never left me. And suddenly, I was fur and teeth, untamed and unsure, realizing your kindness was all I had, was all I ever had, and all I had needed. What had gotten me through. That I didn’t understand you completely, and we would rub against each other and spark sometimes with static, but we came back. You were “Mister Reliable.” And it sounded like a death sentence to you. You weren’t exotic or troubled like all the other men I’d whispered about. But you were. You had come with your own set of challenges and seeds of greatness. You helped me bring about my own. Until, I looked forward to seeing your face in the doorway, above anyone else’s. Until spending time with you was a pleasure I wanted every day. Until it was obvious that you and I would sit and have tea every evening and you just knew to crawl into my bed at night. You grew into my heart and life until you were as much a part of it as I was, and I seeped over into yours, and we benefited from the interaction, we grew healthier and happier by it. It fed us and made us stronger.
Months later, only months, we can’t count the ways we’ve changed, and yet we feel more like ourselves than ever. There is purpose and reason and Friday nights. And I’m no longer a princess and you are no longer a bear. We are side by side, down autumn roads and always holding my left hand in your right. We are somedays and promises of king sized beds, pet dogs, or at least making it out of school. We are saving money and buying gifts. Eating healthy and growing strong. We are devoured whole chocolate pies and rainforest showers that last for hours. And I am good and happy in my life.
A year since it started, it ended, and it is like a film in the back of my mouth, a reminder of past and weakness. Unresolved it scratches at me, but less and less each day. Until my good has outdone my evil.
I want to share your love with no one and ask, who’s Allen? As if yesterday should matter. As if it mattered to me. When all I care about is Friday. When all I care about is you. To the point that I forsake all others and transplant both my arms to start anew. I am drawing again and it is good. You are writing and it is great. We wrestle our demons and come home to each other. Two hour conversations deep in the night, I taste caramel and avoid certain responsibilities. I try patience and the hours slip.
I am granola and trying to write something sweet and stable, so you can know the sadness is passing, the worry is washed away with words, it is read and retained as something else. But you are constant and consistent. Obvious and above. The whole, while I speak fractions.

Once again its cold and I need a sweater.

And I’ll try harder.