• Rochelle Arucan

Sometimes.

Sometimes... Some Times turns into all of the time. Or never again.

In the time it took to finally breathe free again, I hadn’t noticed how quickly my body became comfortable with yours. The problem- I had finally gotten to the point where I belonged to me. Relinquishing myself to someone else again wasn’t on the agenda. But I guess you were never supposed to be more than the few times. The few times; however, had been thwarted by that one evening, a seemingly innocent meet up at that one local bar followed by talk of the past, a couple glasses of beer, and a request to not be alone in that bed of yours. The one night we went out of “routine”, and all there was, was a warm sleeping. I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me nervous. You hadn’t made me nervous before, funny, I know, but there I was anyways, understanding of your needs, wanting to say no- having said yes.


I had no confusion over what we were at the time. We were merely bodies in need of the occasional romp, I could release and so could you. We had established that it was meant to be a no-strings attached, void of expectations, and free of appointments and plans kind of thing. In terms of today times- we were booty calls. Your classic “Netflix and Chill” Minus the Netflix. Were… Now what?

I admit that I made a pass at you first, but drunk me is courageous that way, or lacking in caution. As far as who wanted more and when, well- I only know my timeline, and you only know yours. Neither of us are too keen on being that open on what’s what. Maybe one day we’ll talk about it- or maybe it doesn’t matter. Although, admittedly, sometimes it matters to me. I’ll just never tell you that. But mostly because you like to joke around about how I fell in love with you first. I hadn’t realized “in love” was a part of the picture. Love yes, in love? Are you in love? Or are you just in the love. Very different things you know. Although love isn’t easy for either of us, love is still a whole lot easier than in love. Don’t you think? Actually- I don’t even know if love is even easy at all, and to be honest, I’m not sure if I trust that you even know whether you truly love me. Parts me of just think you’d rather not be alone, and I make it easy for you not to. Maybe it’s the cynic in me, having lost so much too many times before. I’m afraid, but I’m certain of this, I do not want to lose any more. But that’s the thing about love, it makes you stupid. So…


So, we went from the let’s hang to bang, with the occasional no earlier than 11 pm drunk sexts requests under the agreed terms of “get at me when you’re free on those late nights” type hype. It was casual, it was easy, it came with no expectations and it was fun. My body was still mine, and I still belonged to me. I mean, I still belong to me, but if I’m with you, and in love with you, then part of me is yours. Shouldn’t it be? Shouldn’t you be?


I think you like to joke that I was the first to “fall in love”, because it’s easier to think that it was me. After all, I had been the inebriated pursuer to begin with. But those words of love came from your lips first. How did it go from our initial “agreement”, you know, “I’ll text you if I’m feeling it” on occasion, to this? Funny, you tip toed around the fact that you thought I was in the position of wanting something serious, and potentially long term when we first met. I think that had some what to do with my age, and what you think ladies at my age want. I’m sure you were happy to know that my response aligned with your “needs” at that time and at that moment. No- I didn’t want anything serious, and no I was not looking for a boyfriend. Because yes, I wasn’t in the mood, nor willing, or wanting of any of that. To be honest, there was still a heart in need of mending.


But then came November. And all the telling’s of me being your lady, when others asked. Funny- which others? Who counts as those you say I am your lady to? And here I am… Why can’t I let myself trust you? I think it’s because it feels like you’re on the hunt for something bigger and better. Someone who has more, does more, is more. Or maybe I only think this because you’re one of those types. The type that does things “different” as if that’s an excuse to not be more with me. As if hearing that you’re not someone who generally shows more, and is more with others is supposed to make me feel better- It only tells me that I am what everyone else is to you, and there is hardly a difference. It tells me that I don’t move you, or give you a want to show me what I deserve. It tells me, that you have no idea what I deserve.


You remind me of someone I use to know. Maybe that’s why it was as comfortable as it was to begin with. I had already met a version of you before. An old friend, a lover, a memory. What am I doing with you now? Falling in love with a man that feels just like that of a distant lover. You are never truly here with any of us, are you? So strange to listen to your art- your music makes you seem as if all you’ve ever been is present, but you’re not.


You had one real heart break- I’ve had heartbreak all my life. And for whatever reason, here I am still trying to convince myself that love is real. Because what am I- if not someone who believes that honest love can exist? Sometimes, those who come from broken, love harder than others who don’t. How do you love? I’m still trying to convince myself that yours is real. But are you even real? You told me once that you would love me the best way you knew how… I don’t doubt that that’s true- I doubt that you know what love is.


I wish we talked more. It’s funny though, you like to tell me that I am more open than you. And with how I talk, when I talk, I’m sure it sounds like I am. But also, maybe it’s just because I talk more. I tell you more of what’s on the surface than you, while I wait for you tell me something real, something true, something honest. Why don’t I find you a very honest person?


Maybe this is what happens when you date a story teller. His head is always far off in some other time and some other place. He tells you a story, entertains you. Always on a stage, always acting. A musician first, a person second. I think I know you, not your stage you, but you. But that person only exists behind closed doors on your bed, or when we’re driving around in Earl. Or occasionally when you’ve had just the right amount of drinks and your voice goes an octave higher, and there you are… The guy I fell in love with. Because it is him I fell in love with, not…


I’m going to ask you to let me go soon. And I know you will. I’ll wish and hope that you don’t, because I want to believe in your words, in your stories. But you don’t know what love is, and what you believe in of love is just the idea of it- What you can sing of it, another story you can tell. Maybe that’s all I was ever meant to be, another song and another lesson learned. And you, another heartbreak, another loss. That’s the thing about love… It makes you stupid. So…

So he lets me go.


While writing had this song on repeat:

https://open.spotify.com/track/4YMcDA8aDjqtP5tWHmpLsR?si=hYH86joyTuOAxR2M9tWQcw

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