Lines.

I've only ever humbled myself for one person.

I would have crawled on my hands and knees across broken glass for him. I begged him and cried for him and chased him and sent him letters years after he broke my heart. I loved him and offered him my heart raw and bleeding in my hands.

I won't do that anymore.

It's a strange thing to know at the same time as you feel like it will never stop hurting, that someday it will. That you can laugh even as you want to cry. To not even be able to give over completely to the sadness because you simply know that yes, this too shall pass.

When you look at me I see mirrored in your eyes our time together. I don't know if you think of conversations halfdrunk allserious or if you think of me naked pressed against you, of my lips, of the taste of me.

They are one and the same thing, really, anyway.

Doesn't matter if you never fuck me again, if I never feel you inside me and hear that little sigh and gasp when you come.

It doesn't matter if I never fucked you in the first place, so there's nothing there to regret.

We crossed a line way back when and we can't go back across it. We certainly can't pretend it didn't happen.

Everyone I've ever walked or skipped or leaped or dived across that line with, I can see it in their eyes. They remember the feel of me. Even if they only brushed my skin with one finger, then headed back the other direction out of fear or honor (who can say), they remember that feeling. They know.

And so I won't chase it, I won't ask for it, let alone beg for it. I know that this will pass.

And I'll go back to dreaming about the one that never did pass. The one who still comes to my dreams and I offer him, smiling, pieces of me. Another chunk to add to the parts he already owns.

After all, I can't ask someone else for what I don't have to give.