……the touch of her hand…..the feel of her bare skin…..the tingling sensation throughout your body when she innocently smiled at you…..the instant arousal you instinctively felt when her blouse stretched upward just a bit to reveal a sliver of trim stomach…..the friendly teasing which habitually stopped well short of provocative meanness…..the early morning leisurely walks where no topic of conversation was off-limits…..the regular trips to the Dairy Queen to merrily indulge in a giant chocolate ice cream cone…..the way she would automatically blush self-consciously whenever you mentioned how attractive she was…..the dulcet sound of her voice that no one else seemed to take note of other than yourself….the sheer attention she showered upon you when your romance was at its undisputed zenith and sizzling like bacon in a cast iron skillet…… These are the things that turned you on so much to her, and these are the same things that you miss so excruciatingly after she ultimately rejected you and went her own separate way. The little things in life. The minutiae. The seeming trivialities. The minutes and seconds and moments and shards of moments that will live on forever in your brain. You could not purge those fragments of time from your memory even if you tried, but a perverse part of your psyche wants to preserve these hitherto treasured moments anyway so they will always remain available to you whenever wistfulness beckons. Which seems to be happening with increasing frequency lately. Probably about once a day. Probably about five times a day. No, probably about every five minutes throughout each and every day. That time spent with her more and more looks like the best days of my life—the “good old days” squared and subsequently cubed. I guess I knew it at the time too, and nothing of beneficial significance has happened since then to change my opinion on the matter. She was my chosen soulmate out of everyone who inhabits the face of this puny planet, but it’s funny how that cannot be a unilateral decision inasmuch as I evidently wasn’t her chosen soulmate. She sampled the water for a bit and then decided it didn’t suit her; I got thrown back in the drink with all the other unappealing detritus. She was definitely created just for me—that I know for a fact and God above would reluctantly admit the same if He was administered a large bolus of truth serum—but I wasn’t created just for her. DAMNED!!!!! How can that be?! Just how fuckin’ unfair is that, I now ask of you?! She is mine but I’m not hers. Love is apparently sometimes a one-way street. I’ve experienced a panoply of saddening things in my life, but none of those others even come close to the soul-destroying misery attendant to unrequited love. That has to be the worst feeling ever; that is the proverbial wound which never heals. I may get over this pernicious aching in my soul some day way way off in the distant future, yet I highly doubt it. Those aforementioned shards of tantalizing memories will never allow such a thing to happen……
Fred's Soapbox 