We met in a whirlwind. She was vibrant and intoxicating. She was on fire. I needed to get close enough to her to feel a warmth without setting my own self on fire. Her life was chaos and catharsis. She challenged me as no other has. She took my morals and carefully constructed ethics and politely said “fuck you”. She wrapped me in silk and cashmere, lit a joint, and sat back to look at me with her fingertips circling her tea cup.
“You don’t have to follow the rules, ya know”.
We set about life intertwined. I’d come over and touch her flames, getting warm. She’d hussle this or that, the revolving door always open to me.
You don’t have to live this cookie cutter, 9 to 5 life. You don’t have to apologise for being happy. But life isn’t easy and pain is unavoidable. The pain came swift and settled in.
And with this and that, years floated by. But she weighed on my mind over and over until I simply had to contact her again. I’d hoped to touch the flames of her and possibly feel a different fire than the one currently inside my soul.
Home and comfort and chaos greeted me. She, much like myself, is a different woman now. Oh there’s chaos and fire. There are moments of intoxicating air floating between us. But mostly… She’s tired.
What is it about living this life that makes the women around me tired? Are the men tired, too?
We played catch up and the rainy afternoon came to a close.
As I walked out of her home and into the dreary day, I am glad her fire touched mine and we kept each other warm.
I hope the next time we meet, we we won’t be so weary.