From the lead lined box

I’ve had reasons to talk about you recently. Sharing the memories and experiences of the FLR that we lived for all those years. I know my words do not really do it justice. I know they do not bring you, I, or ‘we’ to life. And that’s because I don’t want to bring those moments of you and I back to life. 

They are a part of life.

But a past life. 

The life that was you and I. 

I know each part of life we live and the people we may share it with is unique. And I also need to be open, to sharing those things because they’re a part of who I am too.

And, that’s what makes those moments as they are.

They are moments, memories in the recess of the mind. They’re the moments that are placed, like you are, into the lead-lined box that’s high up on the shelf out of reach. They’re the moments that carry such beauty and pain, of submission, service and dominance, yet carry with them the pain that makes the heart hurt in ways that it once felt that heart, MY heart, would never truly feel again. 

It is very rare that I go back there really, it’s one of those things that switches between the fondest of beautiful fucking memories, the beauty of your submission, the depths of the feelings we had to the immense pain and loss when all was lost. It is memories of one of those goodbyes in life that I think will always remain because of how hard it was, but also because it wouldn’t have been so hard if what was shared hadn’t been as it was.

In those shared moments you and I could truly be who and how we are, our needs no matter what, were there to be embraced and fulfilled. They are the moments where darkness was embraced and accepted and allowed to come out in the beautiful depraved moments explored together. 

Never made to feel less than. You placed me on a pedestal. Adored. Worshipped. You were cared for. Loved. I can still picture the marks on your skin, the way your tears would fall from the corner of your eye and track the same path down your face. I can still hear your words, your pleading, your begging, the sounds you made when your relief was granted. I recall the changing limits that grew with your trust, with your love, with your need to submit as you gave up more and more to me and which I lovingly and totally took. I can see the pain in your eyes as you watched me with him, wishing it were only you and yet accepting that it wasn’t. The twisting of your heart. The marks upon your skin. Of biting your lips, your neck. Of denying you. Of making you suffer and your suffering even more, because you know how much I needed it, yet you know you needed it too.

Yet despite all of these moments. 

Beautiful moments. 

The worst thing of all, is if I allow myself to, I can still feel the last touch, the last kiss. I can still hear the final goodbye. The last words. 

The last breath. 

The last sigh. 

The last tear. 

And that’s not fucking beautiful at all. 

And so, in that lead-lined box like a coffin you reside, because my heart can never go back there.

Because I don’t want to.  

But I still hope that maybe, one day, there’ll be an opportunity for beautiful memories and beautiful moments to be lived. With someone who has such beauty in their own submission, to feel the depths of what I know is possible, to explore and share the deepest and darkest with them and to create our own unique beautiful memories that take their own special place in the heart and in life. 

We may be able to move on from some things, we may even be able to forget others, one thing I cannot forget is who I am, how I am, and what I need. 

I truly learned all of that because of you. 

And for that, I will always share you in a way that I can. In a way, I hope my heart allows. 

With fondness, with truth, with love.