The Seas of Love.

How am I feeling?

I feel a heavy expanse in my abdomen, like a boat rising and falling on the tides, like a boat with a leak in its hull. In this hole I want to stuff substance and hedonism – casual pleasure and surface interactions, though they frequently leave me feeling just as empty as before, and sometimes more.

I feel as if I am missing, missing a part of myself, as if a piece of my heart went away, away, away, to stay with someone else this Sunday, day. The piece of myself that makes my heart skip a beat, the piece of myself that plasters a smile across my face.

I feel like I want to slide my arms around her waist, slide her dirty blonde hair behind hear, and kiss away her doubts and fears. The look in her eyes makes a grown man melt; the smile on her dile opens my heart like the river nile.

I try to be grateful for every moment shared, even if she shares moments with another man; I hope that I’m doing the right thing by myself.

A complex situation I am in, for it does not mirror typical situations others find themselves in; added complexity clouds my mind and sends sadness down my spine. I know that our emotions shared overshadow that shared with another man, though it still hurts me to know that I have to share you.

The clock is reset each time you leave the game, even if you remember the levels just the same, even if the feelings are as strong as the last day, and stronger with each day.

I hope that I can wait out this storm, I hope that I can sail into clearer skies and calm winds; I hope that my vessel finds solid ground. I hope that I don’t run out of supplies on the way.

My reaction is to abandon ship, but I fear that I will drown. My intuition tells me to ride these rough seas until the end, bitter or sweet it matter not for to jump ship now is a guaranteed death, and so I roll the dice and take another chance with my heart, yet, yet, yet.

My vessel will find calm seas and a place to lay anchor safe-ly, else she will crash on the rocks of a shallow reef, slicing my heart into pieces, thrice. I am a stupid man when it comes to love, but I think three times the charm for me; I don’t know if this broken heart can survive a third run at sea, with poseidon’s en-er-gy.

I know that the grandest treasures lie where we least want to look, in the sea into which we least wish to sail – though I know Ernest Shackleton would not be the man he was without the voluntarily confrontation with that which is dangerous, treacherous, and in-timi-dating.

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