When I lie next to you, sorry, when I lie in the same bed as you - I remove myself as much as possible. I shuffle over to the far side, I turn my back. But all I want is for you to reach for me. I want it so much because I know it will never happen.
You are oblivious. Your mind is simple. I'm there, that's that, no more thought is needed. But I'm not there. I don't want to be. I don't know why I stay. You already know things are different. You even asked if I still enjoy sex with you. I answered with a question, made a joke, laughed. But we both knew I gave you no real reassurance.
It's just gotten boring. An arrangement which once held excitement and carefree laughs has soured remarkably quickly. Because without the normal progression of feelings, without allowing a connection to fully form, things get old real fast. Adaptation is the key to survival, and when we decided our situation would never progress, that spark slowly died. Fire needs heat, oxygen and fuel. There's no new fuel being added to what we started with, heat has subsided to an impeding coolness and now I'm gasping for air. I'm becoming asphyxiated by the lack. The lack of anything new; the lack of intimacy; the lack of tenderness; the lack of feeling.
And it's not just you. I've denied myself the luxury of letting go, burning brightly and without bounds. Is that why I can't just leave? Because I've done this to myself? If this isn't what I want, why have I in part created it? Sustained it?
I love tragedies because they make me feel. Comedies are great - laughing is a reassuring warmth; but the depth of sorrow, love, it gets inside you and bursts out again. It feels more true, more raw... just more.