. . . . the stuff of upholstery

Posted: October 14, 2014 in Intimacy, lost, love
Tags: ,

. . . . . something strange, but perhaps inevitable has happened in this world of social interaction, pinging pictures and words off anyone with a IT device (and money for the charge-up), must by course, must navigate one towards a second encounter, with that unique first person.

the first, boy or girlfriend, the first kiss in passion, the first glorious smile of focused recognition when you turned up early or late, it didn’t matter and now as tactile as you may like to be, you can’t touch, you can’t speak as you once did, you cannot spin in that universe. I should not be typing this. She may see it but I cannot help myself, I could delete instantaneously (ctrl+a)+(delete) select all erase and F4 to close this program.

?

But I have not closed this page…. yet.

I am genuinely happy for her and her family of 3 children, her life and her newest skill making chairs comfortable or even glamorous again. She has her own little business, and does good work. (I once spent my career teaching others and the upholstery next door studio department tutors became my friends and showed me a lot of restoration work they did beside teaching. So another vein of the past is stitched into my encounter with a school friend’s Facebook friends list, Don’t say that too quickly you may hurt yourself).

I cannot believe beyond the sayings and expressions of “first love” how strong 40 years later, feelings actually are when she acknowledges my presence in this world with a click or tap on a thumbs up symbol or an unlit star to make it shine. Of passage it is a broken link but it has been repaired so rapidly that the link is of a 16 year old’s feelings that were filed away a long time ago, brought out, dusted down, resprung and adequately upholstered to its full form. I am stopped in my tracks.

She was the one and the intimacy was depth itself. I still cannot believe the feelings her name, words, picture will always invoke, like fabric pulled tight and tacked, the form and shape become right and compliment the structure. Love is not a four lettered word it is a pathetic attempt by language to explain pure happiness in unison with another.

forgive me for this,

dwk

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