and then...bye.

I first realised after I'd known him for three weeks. He opened his morning eyes and they were love filled, same as i knew mine were. He didn't have to say anything, because I knew, but he said anyway. He said it, the smallest and biggest of sentences, and then I said it back to him. My life divided right there, into before and after that instant: before I was loved, and after I was loved. Before I loved and after.
That morning, we didn't get up. We stood on my bed and danced.

I first realised after I'd known him for nine months and four days. His being a sulky painter was something I'd always, always found hugely compelling, I would sit for him sometimes and swear I'd never feel more deliciously, erotically ignored. I was all that mattered; but we both knew that in those times, my inside could have been anyone's inside: I, I, didn't mean shit. It was heady. But on that day his strop permeated everything and it wasn't confined to his paint brush and his eyes when he looked at me. It was in his eyes when he looked at everything. I could feel his disappointment in me. I was an inconvenience on that day, and it made my vision suddenly pin-sharp and clear. I realised, I think we both realised. He didn't want all of me, just some of me. Just the bits he could paint.

I remember us, now, as a wonderful, beautiful story. I thought it had ended wrong, but I was wrong. It was meant. I remember him and me, and I think God, thank you. Thank God I have felt that: that someone was perfect, and thank God I hurt so deeply when I realised he wasn't perfect, and neither was I. And when I realised that was ok. Because it means now I can smile, and say, 'It was you I loved, I loved you. Thank you.'