Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine a life where you, my beautiful lover, come home around 6. Dinner is ready or almost and you greet me in the kitchen. I’m happy to see you and you’re happy to see me.
I think I hopped up on my soapbox last night and you might think I’m looking for the perfect robot, not a human. I can say this...
As I've made quite a few new friends on Facebook and other online spaces, the request to see my face often comes up-- not as much as requests for other parts of my body but certainly often enough.
Night one without you, the pain was so raw -- a million short breaths, shallow breathing through a straw.
Tonight, you weren’t fine, and I felt your pain. Tell me. Don’t tell. I’ll just stay in my lane. We keep hurting each other. Our unintentional flow. The truth cuts so deep, and we go blow for blow.
Tonight, I looked at my husband across the dinner table and saw his tired eyes and face. I was so filled with love and admiration because everything he does is for us, his family.
Brick by brick we built these walls around our hearts and then, like ugly buildings in cityscapes, we plaster, paint, then start again.
My journey to polyamory in my married life began like most people who I’ve chatted with about it: my husband and I lost the intimacy and connection we used to have.