My friends have always told me I get too attached, and I do.
The man I'm with now isn't as attached to me as I am to him – such a boring, old story. Thoughts of him have worn a groove in my mind. I imagine him, again and again and again, holding me, touching me, in me. I sleep with other men, trying to erase the feel of him from my skin, but their bodies seem oddly shaped and don't fit with mine, I avoid their kisses, their passionate utterances annoy me and I am impatient for them to leave my bed as soon as they are finished. When my lover is gone from me, as he is more and more now, I crave his clean smell in my nose and mouth, his breath in my ear as he takes me from behind, the rough feel of his long curls slipping through my fingers, his shy, intimate smile that I thought was only smiled for me but… isn't. He's the only man who I ever swallowed for and he will never know what that simple act - once committed, never undone - meant for me, what I was offering. But, as he has said, to him I'm only a friend he fucks every once and while.
I was gone for four months last year, leaving behind everything in a moment, like we all did. I lived with family, re-connecting in a way that I thought was impossible, considering all the baggage I've carried for so many years. I was surrounded by old, true friends, in a beautiful, vibrant city. The streets were paved in gold… or at least paved – such luxury. On my first day in this southern Mecca, at a Chick-Fil-A drive-thru, the attendant was polite, friendly and asked if there was anything else I needed after I had placed my order. Was this Nirvana? I felt so loved. This beautiful town had industry, commerce, money. I was welcomed with open arms and shown kindness and acceptance. How tempting, how seductive. I know I could have a happy life with her.
But. But I've never just been able to love the one I'm with.
In this age of global mobility people switch schools, jobs, friends, spouses, houses, cars, pets, etc. with a speed and apparent ease that leave me floundering. Part of me envies these people who seem to flourish no matter where they are planted, these people who can fall in and out of love without leaving scars, these people who don't get too attached.
My lover's passion is fickle – burning bright, fading, he holds me tight against his chest, then will push me away with word and deed. Why do I still want him, want this love, want this life, this re-claimed city?
"Let go,"
"Move on,"
"Come home,"
"It's not safe,"
"He's a liar,"
"He's a cheat,"
"There're no jobs and no housing,"
"He'll never love you back,"
"It'll never come back."
Is attachment a chain, holding us back? Should we fight our way free to move on to someone/somewhere better? Or, is it, ultimately, an expression of hope? That we can believe in a lover's capacity for truthful love or in a city's rebirth, more than they believe in themselves?
Although I may play the field, play the slut/lover/girlfriend, play the part they want, my secret heart will always be true to my first love, New Orleans. This attachment runs deep and, while I enjoyed her many pleasures, the beautiful town where I was so lovingly enveloped was my city of exile. I craved the smell of burnt coffee in my nose and mouth, the sluggish air damp on my skin, the cracked and broken sidewalks with street names tiled in blue, the sounds of tugboat whistles on the river and the electric pop of streetcars on St. Charles Avenue. My lifeline intersects with New Orleans, ends here, begins here – again and again and again. And, although I may seek comfort in the arms of her men, learn to appreciate her charms, admire her grace and beauty, for me, any other city will only ever be a friend who I fuck every once and a while.
BE