R.I.P... Him

He’s dead to me. And not even in a bad way. He didn't do anything wrong.

More like, in a necessary way. It was his time.

I planned a trip. Didn’t tell him until it was all said and done and the airline got their money. I have other business in town. But he was the reason. He just didn’t know it.

There’s a lot he didn’t know, actually. He had no clue that I still felt as strongly for him as I did a year and a half ago. He had no clue that I had plans. Dreams, really. Nor that they involved him.

I was waiting for the right time. Waiting for me to feel completely comfortable with the idea of being vulnerable to him again. Waiting for him to show me that he wasn’t a bitch. That he could handle this kind of communication.

But mostly just waiting for us both to emerge from a hectic few months of travel and work and school and shit.

I could no longer wait.

I booked the flight.

Made the arrangements.

Packed the warming lube and Durex.

Even as my overnight bag swelled, the weight of the ensuing loss was apparent. I acknowledged it. Folded it neatly, and zipped it up tight and stood it upright in the corner next to the door.

I remember at my dad’s funeral feeling a peculiar sense of vanity. I was well aware of all the eyes on me, me hidden behind large dark shades, dry eyed for the moment, walking down the aisle of the church toward the casket that held his shell in a dry-cleaned suit. I remember being fully cognizant of the outward appearance, much like I did when walking this same aisle as a bridesmaid in my sister’s wedding only a month prior. *step, together. step together. don't forget to smile.* All this attention was lavished on me at the funeral and I enjoyed it. And I felt bad about it. I knew that it was a natural thing. I like attention. And if you feel like shit, if you’ve lost something significant, why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

I know that getting on the plane and seeing him will end in a death. A significant one, even.

So why not wanna have some attention to hold you together?

The plan was to arrive there. Give him a bubble bath. Join him. Embrace the vulva-vulnerability, his head in my hands. Fcuk him senseless. Say goodbye. Without opening my mouth, except to take him all in.

I remember the hot Jamaican sun beaming down on my back and watching the casket being lowered into the red earth. I remember wanting one more glance at its platinum façade, but knowing that it had to go.

I planned that that last time with him, also the first time, actually, would cum and go. I would savor every thrust. I would give him more than he had earned. And I would bury him, finally. Even if I wanted one last look.

Why not leave on an orgasmic note?

I know it seems absurd. Comparing the death of my pops to ending a relationship that never was. No, it IS absurd. (but it's so dramatic and poetic and shit)

But so is making plans without notification.

So is falling in love and not staying there.

So is walking away without a fight.

Or with one, for that matter.

So is unzipping the overnight bag. Unpacking.

Trashing the Durex.

Stashing the lube.

Abandoning the plan. With or without him.

I have other business in town. It’s now the reason.

He’s dead to me. In a very good way.

And I can finally, FINALLY move on.

And LIVE.

Feels great.