After I plugged in the coffee pot, I sat comfortably in the chair closest to the counter to begin The Coffee Meditation: Five minutes of as deep, relaxed soul flow as feasible.
Angling the chair straight at the Sun, now rising in the further south east skies over You, I placed My hands over my Heart and closed My eyes. As often happens, the first rays dancing on my face were Your fingers gliding over my cheek to pull me close to You, offering a breathy I Love You, Bebe, as You deeply, tenderly kissed Me. The percs started to heat up. Some days I think about you in a very conscious way, like yesterday out so early and humid with the dogs pulling. I sought out Apollo’s steeds cresting over the treeline and actively conjured the thought of You. Today, as happens more often, You came to Me – likely the constant folly of what I desire and cannot have.
My focus today was strictly on the counts of those percs. See, I am determined to one day meditate and count exactly how many percs it takes for the coffee to brew. Could I keep up with them today, balance My breath and awareness and simply let it flow without losing count nor drift too far up into My head? We pulled each other close, hands on faces, arms gliding around backs of heads stroking necks, kissing. Sensual, longing, loving kisses that simply kept their own percolating rhythm. As the pot heated up, so did We. You let me unbutton your blouse. No. You were wearing a tee-shirt and You helped Me pull it up over Your head, laughing. No, You were back in the blouse, turned around, my arms around you – 220.1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 30, 1, 2, 3. Slowly unbuttoning, disrobing You, kissing Your shoulders and going for the unassisted double play: The bra. So, I guess in baseball lingo I was at second base so is that a 2-2-2?
Percs were up over 300 and pulsing by the time I had eased you back to pull off Your jeans. No, You wore a skirt. The one You wore, long and flowing, when You first greeted Me at SJU, a loving welcoming committee of One. I pulled it up to look at Your fabulous thighs: soft; supple skin; tender; and strong, the same ones connected to the hip bone connected to the pelvic bone connected to the Womb that bore Two Treasures I always say should have been Mine and I thought of as. I still marvel but not surprisingly now in the wake of Your resilience witnessed, that you bore them naturally – speaking of unassisted – and with little labor. Caressing your hips with my nails, I pulled at the edges of your panties first up to tease You where it mattered most – then I took them off, gently over Your knees I kissed and down around your ankles, off your feet kissing your toes, whiffing and watching your amused excitement at my primal pleasure as I rounded third, pressed against you firmly ready to come Home.
Wait. Where is the pitch count? I mean perc. Was it up over 300 or 400? Shit. Great. In the words of Phil Collins, I missed again.
Frustration setting in. Back up. Slowly kneel down, kiss Your feet in reverence and in supplication bow at the Temple doors. More edginess, fast losing focus now efforting too much. Like my Summer’s Lost Sailor at Sea themed crossroads, I sought in vein to restore order to our Love and to the count.
There was no turning back. No second take. Sorry, Charlie. The count came unthreaded, I became agitated just like the day you cornered me with what You said was an attempt to find the words You couldn’t speak so you wrote them. I called them a cowardly act of aggression, not merely speaking from the Heart but delivering an ultimatum of what We need to discuss. I replied. I hit Send. Still I don’t know a goddamned reason why I hit that shitty button. But, there’s no going back, is there, mi Hembra? I didn’t swear. I didn’t call You names. I merely rejected You. Harshly. The ensuing calls and texts escalated misunderstanding. You said goodbye unceremoniously letting Me know that the pattern of unmeasured attacks was a signal [You] should not be in this relationship. Oh, wait. So, yesterday’s Myers Briggs compatibility where you scored us at 90% success rate for Our Wedded Bliss was wiped out? Your email and the choice to write with a text alert ‘Baby I couldn’t find the words so I wrote you’ was reasonable You think? To try and illicit a dialogue from a Man You knew was a. sick and medicated sick b. in a not agreeable geotag location to discuss c. a topic You insistently (under the guise of a happy couple compromising as Partners) really just wanted Your way with rather than examine Your uncomfort – Your word not mine, I call it insecurity, a word you roundly rejected – and Your mistrust, and Your baggage, Alma! I was a bit naive and callous, insensitive, to your tenderness and hurt but I still to this day don’t have all of your Crabby hidden under-the-shell story, now do I? I have some surface facts you posed as Your darkest corners when We both know You continued to hide Your Self in what? Shame? Fear? Pride? Maybe You don’t trust your own fidelity, sensed a restlessness in Your Heart and a burning in your loins You had once proudly bequeathed to Me?
We both made choices that led to this point, yet you indignantly decided it was my unmeasured attacks. Not Your thin skin and maze of a User’s guide with no operating instructions spelled out. You are a mediator. Do you announce new rules or switch the terms in the middle of a negotiation? Nice. So, when You said we should decide on this even though it is uncomfortable or go on our own paths, in spite of our prior discussions where I asked you to trust me and to please stop engaging the matter, was that Our paths headed to the altar like the day before? And, undefined unmeasured attacks as You experienced suddenly in the span of 39 minutes of phone calls were the signal? Hmmm. There was no turning back. No Zamboni to come and smooth over roughened ice on a hard, fast moving rink where you had puck control for most of the period. Sudden death.
Unfortunately for me, an unrelenting unforgiving nature in You I only discovered too late, emanating from Your core – unresolved issues with a mother and an ex-husband – are the price I now pay with the highest penalty. I guess I ought not be surprised You forgot the parasol on the plane, the one I bought for You on Our last day, the most magical day in Montauk, to present her the next day, Mother’s Day, upon your insistent return to see her rather than stay with me. I admired you. In spite of Your deep-seeded ambivalence, animosity towards her – Your hurt, as You call it, where You seem to enjoy living – you were dedicated to making the symbolic trek home to visit Your Mother. Maybe as a Mother Yourself, You simply understood the respect required. The End.
Montauk. Irony. I didn’t even know The End was it’s nickname when I held You tight, the wind-swept mist of the ocean side night coming to swirling life against the lone sodium streetlight peering through our motel window as we made slow, deep love to a foghorn soundtrack and the Turtle Hill light show, the House throwing it’s majestic dancing rhythmic protective beacon over us, two ships no longer lonely at sea, in time to our enraptured, entwined seeming waves of pleasure with seemingly no horizon in sight. I told You We are at the Far End of the World, Bebe. We’re not going back. How little I knew. How little did I want to truly know in Our Hunger Game, too consumed by my own famine and ravenous appetite for Y(our) Love?
The coffee was brewed. I tried to compose myself back to a place where I could enjoy becoming caffeinated. It entailed letting the pot burn while I proceeded to do a full set of floor exercises, opening my hips. A voice coach once said all our emotion unreleased lies in our hips, that’s why we stretch them so much before we sing. I remember a girl I shared the stage with one Summer, she who at the ripe age of 23 was the perfect Juliet ( I was no Romeo, no I was appropriately fated to die a Mercutian death ) and who as a human being had her sh*t together far more than I maybe ever will, reveling in her voice coach’s exercises pursuing the same and letting the tears fall like rain. She’s a yoga guru now. In Miami, where you and I took this picture, where we were supposed to move as our half-way point, the compromise of healthy couples as You say.
A curse on both Our houses.
As I raised my arms up fully stretched long and skyward over my head, right fingers over left and chanted Wahe Guru in the Trust exercise I sent you, looking into My Own Heart for Our Lotus to bloom, I saw You in front of Me also chanting with those slightly parted delicious lips and an expressively sad, loving face. We placed our Hands over each Other’s Lotus and continued to vibrate. As I wept, the dogs came over to lick my tears.
Unconditional love from beings that depend on You. My healing today finally brewed.
I Love You. I am Sorry. I Forgive You. I accept the apology You are incapable to offer.
I Love You & Me.