I Will Wait for You, Venus.

Venus is, indeed, a woman—I've seen her in the flesh. I’ve known her, or rather, she’s known me.

Everything about her was sublime, from the pearly toes on her feet that glistened in the moonlight to the wavy locks on her head cascading down to her rear. She was a sight to behold, and even in her anger, her beauty was captivating. When upset, I usually took on the likeness of an ogre, or perhaps a mule, but she was not made from the same stuff as me. Her rosy cheeks burned a hot crimson when her dewy lips parted to spit venom from her tongue. I still remember it as if it were yesterday: the accusatory finger she drove into my sternum, her glaring eyes belying her agony.

She was my first; before her, my heart had never truly connected with another. I never even had an example of what that connection could look like. Romance was never my parents’ strong suit, and this world has never been too kind to soft boys. Under our roof, tit for tat was the norm, and obligation was the glue that held us together. In my youth, and later in my adolescence, I took the myth of my having a heart, not being a heart, and buried it deep within my psyche. I then unknowingly converted the lie into a pseudo-truth and lived the bachelor life well into my adulthood. I was nothing short of a shallow, two-dimensional surface the day she appeared. 

Our poles drew us together, and now that I think about it, they likely were what tore us apart. She was a dazzling fire, vigorously flickering in any direction the winds of life blew. I was the stone-cold earth, rich in fertile potential, waiting for a seed to nurture. I quickly surmised that she was indeed the most unique woman I had ever met by the mere fact that she spoke, danced, and lived entirely from her heart, which seemed to serve as the mouthpiece of her soul. Yes, she had her own rhythm and spoke her own language, seducing all those blessed enough to meet her. It was not long before I, too, had fallen under her spell. Frequently, I bestowed gifts of admiration or offered myself for a service, and she would reward me with drips of honeydew that sank into the soil in my torso, making their way to my buried heart.

It was she who woke me from my life-long slumber. It was she who broke the curse. Over time, these feelings of unfiltered passion, guided by the sweet nectar of her admiration, began to sprout forth into the world and blossomed like a gentle daisy. The ancient knowledge once lost to me had been recovered, and my bones trembled with the message it carried. Yes, I was more than just a mind! Beneath my surface, I took another form in which I felt the tides of life’s cycles intensely. This form could sing without using my own voice, leap without lifting my feet, and see far beyond what my eyes could perceive. When the chatter of my mind quieted, the new depths of my soul could hear the profound resonance of the Universe humming in the distant stillness. 

But even in this new form, I lacked the fluency to express my gratitude and yearning in her language; my mechanics were too cumbersome to form the words gracefully. Though I admired her movement, my two left feet were unable to mimic her dance. Her many years' head start had given her a limberness that I struggled to recreate. The more I tried, the dumber I felt; I knew I would never dive as deep as she did. So why did I feel compelled to keep trying when all the while, the space between us widened steadily? "Keep up with me," she encouraged, though later I would come to recognize it as a plea. Could she not see my efforts?

There was little I could do to avoid the inevitable. The time we should have spent frolicking was instead spent on bickering. If she ran full speed, I trailed too far behind, and if I sat still for too long, she grew restless. I was linear while she loop-de-looped, and our hearts unable to follow the other's direction. Her softness hardened in the face of my perceived inadequacy, and quite frequently, it bit if I asked for help. “Typical Martian,” she admonished. “I am not your teacher!” She all but begged me to free her of any motherly duties, and given enough time to find my footing, I would have done just that. But her flames frightened my youthful heart back into the safety, or perhaps familiarity, of its grave. No matter how hard she tried, I knew neither she nor her psychobabble could reach me there. I would often end an argument before it began by retreating into the abyss, but this only served to exacerbate the issue. She droned on and on about the stark imbalance between us without proposing any solution. One day, in a fit of rage and desperation, I demanded to know what she wanted from me, and her heart shouted, “I want a man who will hold me!” So, I extended my arms. The sharp, insulting laugh she offered back was followed swiftly by a pitiful cry. What were we doing? Who were we fooling?

They say that cognitive dissonance is the discomfort felt when actions no longer align with values or beliefs; and that is precisely what I felt in those dark days after she left. It came as whispers in her voice, guiding me towards paths I was not ready to take. When I attempted to drown the pain in the bosoms of faceless women, I would hear the voice say, “Face me, coward!” When I sank back into my hole, burying the weight of the feeling in mounds of ceaseless work, the voice would say, “Typical Martian.” When I sought to leave my body altogether with the aid of a drug or two, she would manifest before me and whisper, “When will you hold yourself?” I could not go on this way.

I sought salvation in the company of a therapist, and together, we unearthed my bleeding heart and worked to restore it. Sure, I was hesitant at first, for its scars were still tender, but eventually, I relaxed into the vulnerability. In the process, I began to learn, notably, that the language of the heart is vast, and its movements are varied. I was confronted with tough questions that did not yield easy answers: Why did I cling to the grave? What does romance mean to me without someone to give it to? Like skilled sculptors, my counselor and I carved space for my heart to speculate its response while growing in its own way, at its own pace. Slowly, I began rebuilding. I threw myself into introspection and questioned all that I found. When I was ready, I turned to face my little heart, broken and battered, and embraced him. I held myself in a way so affirming that, without knowing it, I broke yet another curse. The freedom to feel out loud was liberating.

These days, I have much more work to do, but I am well on my way. This young heart is now a nimble stallion, prancing through the landscape of human emotions, discovering as it goes along. Perhaps one day, I’ll stumble upon Venus once again, in the form of a friend or a stranger; or perhaps not. Perhaps a woman like her comes only once in a lifetime. I choose to believe we’ll meet again, and I eagerly await our encounter, for next time, I won’t let her slip from my grasp. Next time, our hearts will tango into the blazing sunset together.