A love story in three parts.

Falling
The falling was the easiest part. And, really, it was more like sinking. It was like walking into the ocean’s arms until all that existed was salt water and the ache of breathless lungs. But what an exquisite ache.

The beginning is always easiest. There are no quarrels, no silences stretching into the darkness, no empty words or broken promises. There are passionate kisses in the rain, frenetic love making. There are soft kisses too, evenings spent cuddled together. There are cups of hot cocoa or lemonade.

If you had asked her the moment she fell in love, it would be when he breathed her name against the paper of her skin. The way he said it like a promise.

If you had asked him the moment he fell in love, it would be when she walked out of the bathroom wearing his shirt from the night before. He knew he wanted to wake up next to her every morning for the rest of his life.

Swimming
The middling is richer than the beginning. It has more depth and is full of sweetness. It is a settling; a melding. It is a slow blending of two into one.

She loved making love during these times more than in the beginning. Those were hurried, sometimes awkward. These were slow and delicious, full of the mutual feelings and shared passion.

He loved talking during these times. They had passed the superfluous “getting to know you” chatter and could get to the meat of shared interests and philosophical topics. They sat, entwined, talking for hours about everything.

Swimming along, they resurface from the falling, riding waves as they come. They take their time, enjoying the feelings without the breathless ache and rushing need. Swimming, they sometimes dive deeper than they ever have, touching milestones to guide them back to surface.

Drowning
The end is defined in the moments they can’t take back. These moments are sometimes clearly etched into memory and sometimes forgettable.

The end came without fanfare. There was no straw to break the camel’s back; no warning bells. They simply let go of each other’s hands in the dark, took one last lungful of air and dove too deep to resurface.

She said it had started ending the day they ran out of things to say. The flow of conversation, their never-ending dialogue, became a trickle and then a drip, until it finally stopped altogether. 

He said it was the day they made love and the distance between their fingers seemed to grow shadows and their bodies took up space outside of each other. Separating like lips for a kiss, but never following through. They had blossomed and, just as quickly, they had wilted. No hard feelings, just the memory of oceans.

Step-Father.

You.

When I was small, I wanted you to be impressed by me.
I wanted you to love me, fear me, protect me, believe in me.
A myriad of things come to mind when I think about you.

Most of it is abuse.

Some of it is good.

When I was a teenager, I didn't want anything to do with you.
I had already figured out what the child hadn't.
You didn't love me the way a father loves his child.

Some of that was abuse.

Most of it was really bad.

As an adult,  you abandoned me. I was nineteen and running scared.
It took two years to admit what I had been running from.
It took damn near ten years to get to this poem.

Most of it is pointless by now.

Some of it is worthwhile because I feel the need.

I'm not going to say I've forgiven  you, because I probably never will.
It took almost ten years to realize that I don't have to forgive you.
That I can forget you without forgiving. It's not like you asked for it anyway.

Some of that could be called childish.

Most of it is for my own protection.

If it was just me, I could've forgotten you a long time ago.
But it isn't just me, is it? There are my other halves too.
Your daughter, my sister. My brother, your enemy.

Most of this is pointless. It's not like you'll read it. It's not like you'd care anyway.

Some of it hurts more than I'd willingly admit to you.

I wish it had been just me. That you weren't a constant reminder.
A lingering memory I can't shake, attached to gray matter I can't pick at.
I'll sit with the memories though, remember and then let you go.