For a few years now, I’ve carried a torch for one man. It lit the moment I met him, the instant that I saw that face. It grew to a steady flame, then a fire, and it burns still, tarnished but bright. I carry it quite alone, and against all reason.

While my affections have not wavered since the beginning, my perception is that the same cannot be said for him. He is hot, cool, cold, then warm, then hot again, changing without warning, with no reason given, and with no acknowledgement. The confusion and constant desire for him has left me breaking myself against him over and over, suffering damage each time. I don’t believe my efforts have the slightest effect on the variance of his affection. I’ve come to expect a period of coolness after the hot, but I never know when things will heat up again. It’s exhausting and demeaning. I’m embarrassed for myself. Like anyone who is addicted to something though, it seems somewhat out of my control.

I don’t understand anything about this. My feelings have never waivered, even when I was wracked with sobs, devastated by another swift, unexpected retreat. Do I lack self respect? Time and again I’ve tried to summon hate or disgust to put out the flame, but it burns on. A pathetic little light providing no warmth or comfort.

How is it so easy to turn desire and affection off and on as if it were on a switch? When I am with someone, I have to desire them fully. If that fades, I am done, and it never comes back. How can these feelings be boxed up and put away so quickly and easily? Then brought out again as though they were never gone?

Faced again with another period of coolness, feeling merely tolerated by him, I had an epiphany of sorts. A moment of sad clarity that leaves me standing in front of a big, thorny question that I can’t get around.

For him, I think, I am like Mexican food. He always likes Mexican food, but sometimes, he craves it. Must have it. It’s so good while he’s enjoying it, a hearty feast that is as satisfying as it ever was, everything he wants in that moment. Then, hunger satiated, it’s done. He doesn’t think about Mexican food again for a long, long time.

For me, he is like water. Every day, I want water. It’s a constant. No wavering; I can’t get enough water. I had some today, I’ll want some tomorrow. And every day after that.

There can be no reconciliation between these two.

Taylor Swift, Our Lady of Sorrows of Tragic Love Stories, sang a beautiful, heartbreaking song on her album evermore, titled “Tolerate It”. Perhaps that big, thorny question that my recent epiphany stood in my way will allow me to finally, as the song’s protagonist says, “take this dagger from me and remove it.” This time, I turn my back, walk forward, and serve myself responsibly.

Because really, what am I gaining from this relationship? Being desired, feeling the hot, burning flame, there is nothing, nothing more intoxicating. Since I’ve had it, life without it seems very dull indeed. The future seems long without its glimmer. But the shit, the sadness, the emptiness of feeling that I matter only as a physical form satisfying a momentary need, is that worth it? Maybe I’ve despaired enough. Maybe I’m ready to move on into the unknown with my fond memories of hot desire, not expecting it in the future, but knowing that if there is a next time, I need more.

I need to be more than Mexican food.