Hanging by threads of palest silver...

The rain has been following my brain patterns: moments of peaceful clarity interrupted by hours of torrential downpour of emotions.

I texted GV8 last night, while I was stuck in traffic, asking him how he was doing.

In response, he told me he was fine, and the better question was how I was holding up, as he expected me to be in worse shape than himself.

Which, whether or not that is true, I am much more open to admitting to emotional vunerability than he is, than most are. I won't necessarily express the emotion that I am feeling, but I will communicate it.

I answered, then he called so I would not be texting and driving.

It is a bit disconcerting to have your ex-boyfriend's voice in surround sound over your car speakers. It's like he's touching every part of me.

We talked. About what I was doing, about how I needed to be focusing on my writing, about how I need to finally get it together and figure out what I should write my non-existent book on.

And it is non-existent. I get asked, time and time again, to write on how I've been molded into the woman I am today. How my social-sexual mindset was created, what experiences led me into becoming this half-beast thing, detached and manipulative when it comes to life, to men, but still able to keep my heart, my ethics, my need for monogamy.

Write it all down. All the men, all the experience, all the random experiments and lessons learned. Throwing myself into it the only way a person can when psychologically abused from a young age. Thank you, daddy issues.

I just can't bring myself to do it, not now.

So we talked as I drove through downtown, talked as I passed the high buildings, the puddles formed in gutters catching the sides of my tires for their watery lift-offs.

I pulled up in the lot behind my apartment.

By that time, we had shifted to the topic of Us. Trying not to rehash. Trying to set boundaries, realizing that we can't even hug.

How pathetic. That a mere hug can wreck us. We can't touch each other without upsetting the delicately crafted walls we are building between us.

I went to tell him that I still thought he was wrong, that we should be together, but I stopped myself. No need to go over that tired argument. But he had me say it anyhow, told me to finish my sentence.

Told me that, days after we saw each other on Saturday, Saturday when I could not stop from touching him, stroking his back, kissing his neck, running my tongue along the inside crease of his elbow, biting his side gently, so gently... once the bed was assembled, he pushed me onto it, I half-stood, pulled him down to me, trying to control my squirming hips, trying to keep my ankles from locking around his lower back, then finally undulating under him, running my lips up his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. When he tried to pull away, I held him to me, whispered, "I want you to be the first man in this bed with me. Platonically. Platonically as we can. Please."

And he stayed.

I got inside his head, as sure as he has been inside mine.

It serves him right, in a non-malicious way. I told him not to kiss me on the lips, not even that platonic peck, that I would not be able to handle it.

And he did it anyway. So it escalated. And this is what happens when you escalate.

I warned him and he made his choices.

After that, he had to keep his distance. We both did. He confessed that his head had been a mess since he saw me.

And then he tried to convince me to date others, to find another male interest.

This is an argument I've won with myself often.

A long relationship ends. After the inital licking of wounds, I've found that my body is accustomed to the man I was with. So any new partners feel awkward and unsure. Which means I have to get used to being with others. So I take a lover, have a few one-night stands, and sexually I'm back to being okay. When I find someone I'm willing to date, want a relationship with, that sexual awkwardness, that muscle-memory mental aftertaste from the previous man, isn't there.

I'm not doing that this time. Because there has to be other ways of coping.

So for me to try to date someone, to have a relationship, when I'm still in love with another, when I still haven't gotten over another... what poor taste. What disrespect to any future male. It's a poison pill to any potential relationship.

So I cannot seriously date until I move past him.

And I do not want to casually date. It just rubs my nose in the fact that none of them measure up. None of them will measure up. Because he was rare, because what we had is rare. So casually dating isn't on option.

After the conversation ended, I realized something.

He's probably pushing me away for two reasons.

The first is the obvious one, the one he says: he wants me to be happy, he wants to make sure I don't miss The Guy For Me, and he wants me to get over him so I'm not hurting anymore. Then we can hug, we can touch, things will be okay.

The second I'm not sure he's even realized. If I'm distracted, if I'm taken off the market, and he knows, he knows very well that my monogamous nature runs deep, that I would never cheat on my partner, even with him, then I am no longer available to him. I am no longer making him doubt his decision, rethink what he chose. I am no longer an accessible temptation.

If I don't sleep with Playboy this weekend, who is coming down to visit starting tomorrow, it's likely going to make it harder for him.

How long is this going to take?

Who is going to break?

Will he come back to me, or will I finally give up on him?