Resistance

He wrote me poems. He called me his queen. He shared things with me he swore he had only shared with a sacred few.

Yet, I resisted.

He made beautiful artwork from my words. He shared beautiful ideas and tantalizing fantasies with me.

Yet, I resisted.

He made me feel long forgotten and buried emotions. He made me crave the solitude of submission. The ultimate gift of giving oneself wholly to another.

Yet, I resisted.

Then one night, as I sat listening to his words, I continued to resist. I told myself, not yet, not now. I resisted, and when he left, I cried. I realized I wasn’t falling in love with him. I was in love with him.

Yet, I resisted.

Then it came, that moment that I knew was the reason for my resistance. He was never meant to be mine. Not in that way. No longer a lover, not emotionally, and never physically. I could feel his sadness in telling me he had changed his mind. I could feel my heart start to shatter.

Yet, I resisted.

I’ll never tell him openly that I fell in love with him. I’ll never tell him how openly I wanted to worship at his feet. I’ll never tell him how much I wanted to do anything for him, that I would do everything for him.

No, I’ll always resist that. I’ll heal, and remain his friend. I’ll resist the could have, would have, should have’s; because from the beginning I promised myself and him, that I would always be his friend. That, I will not resist.

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