Last night I started this blog post. I didn’t finish it, but I had a good 700 words. 700 words of hoping he was reading. 700 words of hoping my tale of pain and need and adoration would wake him up. 700 words of love.

I am a writer. Words are my outlet. Words flow like blood from a vein when trying to call out to a lover. My words have bled enough to fill an ocean. For what? For the silence. I hear my own echoes. Nothing more.

I know a man that loves me. I know a man that has left me alone, drowning in tears. A man that knows he holds my complete trust, my passions, my future. His words and promises were the sweetest I have known. His eyes secured the truth of his words.

I feel more sorrow for the other woman than I do myself or him. Yes, the other woman. Once a man shares his heart, fears, flesh and dreams with you- the one that ignored him becomes the other woman. The obstacle. The dark force. I hear he had no choice. She gave him an ultimatum. I hate that he is not strong enough to fight back. To fight for me. I know I echo his every thought. I can’t sleep at night because I am fully alive inside his dreams. I do wish he would fight. I wish he would lean on me instead of allowing himself to be beaten over an ultimatum. But for her, I pity. I ache for her. For keeping someone by your side in guilt, in fear, in anger- In the form of ultimatum shows the total lacking of the concept and emotion that is love. The lack of love for him, to deny such happiness as he has found. And the lack of love for herself to demand and hold a man by her side that aches and has tasted the waters of happiness elsewhere. That must be a lonelier feeling than I will ever know. God bless her heart. I do mean that.

I am sure she feels that she has won. I don’t know what her prize is. Social status? What other people think? Settling? All the things I would never want. I have his poetry, his promises, his dreams. I have photos to see those sweet eyes when he thinks of me. I can listen to the lullaby when I need his voice. I don’t have his everyday. But that is his choice- and something I must live with. He is a man of reason, and I must trust in that.

“Love is not a door to keep open or to close. It is a bridge. Don’t burn it.” – Great advice from an even greater woman. I take that advice. No more calling to my love. He knows where I am and how I feel. He could always feel my pain without talking to me. I doubt that has changed. So no doors. Only bridges. And as I cross this bridge alone, I keep the flames of bitterness and wondering why far away from the rope that binds the bridge. That binds us. I hold the rope for a future crossing.

He may settle forever. Ache forever. Never grab the rope and cross the bridge. It is not saying I will wait and keep my life on hold. My life will not allow such right now. It is not saying hurt can be ignored. It is saying that should the day ever come that he finds the power within himself, the power I know he already has deep down inside, to break away from the tainted commitment he feels bound to, no matter how much unhappiness it breeds, there is this bridge. It won’t be easy, but if he tries, he could cross it. He could claim his fate. Each day makes that bridge more of a journey. But I will never burn it. But calling to my love, my sweetness- I am done. I am worthy of more than wondering in dark silence. I am worthy of total adoration.

So maybe being a writer has weak spots. Flaws. I need more than words. Adore me.