Inseparable - Kate Bueler

Inseparable. We used to be inseparable. It happened quickly. Quickly before you know it one night turns into 3 day night sleep over and then you can’t think of not texting or calling to talk about something funny that happened- like I lost my car again. Where did I park it. Or I just died a little in this class when they started reading the syllabus. Or the kids did this. Or maybe, maybe something like I can’t wait to see you again, when can you come over. I hate the phone he says but then hours go by and we say we should have just gotten together. But being inseparable is scary. Scary it is.

Because what happens when you separate. For a few days, or hours, or weeks. What happens to you. To him. Inseparable. It was hard to separate. Separate physically it was. We had the perfection combination of stamina, him being pussy deprived, me being penis deprived, and the ability to recover and repeat, and repeat. Our romps were marathons. They started that way. It was insatiable. We were insatiable. And then. Then we would have to separate you must. To wait a few hours before the shakes set in the withdrawal real, the drunken dial or text, or I'm so hard get over here. Over here.

Our marathons became mini runs around the track. We weren’t deprived anymore. Anymore. We were inseparable. But then the separating. Separating had to happen. Not days or hours but weeks and months. And then the inseparable piece. The inseparable piece that made me miss those romps and talks and romps and talks and food making and beer drinking and pot smoking. The cocoon of the bed only getting up to eat or pee or breathe outside. Separating. The separating is so hard when you once were inseparable.

So when you have separated and this time it is permanent. His penis of best meat in town hasn’t paid your danger triangle magical vagina a visit. The vacation more permanent. A study abroad is now home. Home. Once you separate and you once you were inseparable when you hear, hear they aren’t okay. He is not okay. Okay you can’t help but feel inseparable again. Because you want nothing more than to merge again and make it okay. No not the banging, not the sex, not the relationship-you can’t separate from your feelings of loss of potential-not the death of the relationship-but the quiet slow death of him. When you must numb yourself to the point of extinction. Extinction. Beautifully flawed we all are.

But this is different. I couldn’t separate from my feelings, feeling for him to be okay, for me to be with being okay, okay with knowing he might not, he might not and there was nothing I could do again. Again. Disempowered by separation. Inseparable the feelings of love and loss and love and loss and the want for it to be different. That he would be healed, healed and not run away. Run away in white lines, or alcohol or any of it. Because last time I saw him he looked skinny. But I pollyannaed it and didn’t believe. I couldn’t separate those feelings of being inseparable from him my feelings for him.

But this time, time as I have watched my mother and at least one former lover I had no choice to separate. No words could be enough. No looks enough. No tears enough. I weep for the loss of a life, a life that can matter. A life that would not be pained pained so much so much that we need to separate again. Again. Inseparable it so hard to separate. Separate the feelings. The feelings of disappointment and knowing there is nothing I can do. Can do at all. But separate. Separate. And do better at the choosing. The choosing next time. This time. Another