In the Night

Just after midnight we were thrown into wakefulness by a crashing from the bathroom. Content in our awareness that it was nothing malevolent, just a faulty shower caddy tumbling from the wall, we adjusted and waited for our heart rates to return to a resting low. Yours quickly returned while mine refused to settle. With sore joints and a newly restless mind, I rolled over to the glow of my phone and began catching up on my articles.

Minutes passed and your breathing returned to the deep and rhythmic inandout that I loved. I read story after story, still unable to put my mind to rest. Adjusting your position, your legs and torso curled further, pushing against me with your backside, unaware of your own movements. You looked so small with your limbs sleepily folded; so peaceful; so beautiful.

Words began to pour into my mind:

We are a tumbling mess of limbs as we drop our defenses and fall in and against and along side one another.

We are imperfect in all the right ways; our protrusions and rough edges carefully sliding past and settling into the other’s concavities, filling them so naturally.

You adjusted again, unfurling your long legs and rolling onto your back, your face turning toward the glowing light on my face. Hey, you.

I cast aside my distraction and turned back to your sleep-soft face. Placing kisses ever so softly against your shoulders, your back, your neck, your forehead and your stubbled cheek. Tired and contented sighs escaped your chest, I couldn’t keep from running my fingertips in trails across your skin, I couldn’t keep from kissing your curves and corners. I was in love, so completely, in that moment. My heart was full and racing, threatening to explode. You are my everything, and I wanted you to feel it, I wanted you to know.

And so it went, for the next couple hours: a quietly spilling out of love while we wrapped arms around one another, intertwined our legs and pulled closer until our hearts struck the other through muscle and flesh. I couldn’t bear to release you, even for a moment. The words were pouring out and I just let them fall to the ground without putting them to paper because I didn’t want the moment to end, I didn’t care how many words I had telling me how the moment felt, I wanted to be in it, completely, and with my whole attention.

This is what loving you feels like, a whole body wrecking as we collide in the moonlight; a casting off of unrelated requirements so that I might spend a few more moments tucked with such care inside the cavities of your chest, caressing your heart in ways it never knew it needed to be touched.

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5 Truths

Kait Mauro is one blogger I’ve followed for a while, and one I’ve greatly enjoyed for just as long. She recently shared an introductory / list post, Identity, as a way for her readers to come to know her in a brief, succinct fashion. I love lists and I love introductions, so naturally I was quite taken with the idea. A few days after posting Identity, she posted 5 True Things, a list of truths or, as she puts it: “5 things I’m learning lately”.

Being able to identify and define my truths as well as my life lessons has been a skill I’ve only just begun pursuing, but it’s one that I recognize as being invaluable to personal improvement.

So, with that, I suppose I’ll share my own 5 Truths / Things I Need to be Reminded of Constantly:

  1. Happiness isn’t going to happen if I’m not willing to make the declaration, take the risks, and chase it.
  2. As stressful as hurdles and struggles are when things already seem incredibly tenuous, recognize the value in the process, revel in the accomplishment — then get back to it.
  3. Being afraid is acceptable; letting that permanently  stop all forward momentum is not.
  4. Not everything will turn out “okay”, but I will be more than alright.
  5. Go slow and enjoy.

Be sure to check out Kait’s writing, photographs, and truths over at Don’t Flinch.

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Prized Possessions

 

It was getting late and we had just wrapped up our post-dinner card game. You were a room away, getting things settled as I crawled beneath the covers, recalling the events of earlier that day; the surprise of an email notification for a file being shared with me. Recordings. The attached note explained that you were granting me access to five years worth of musical tinkering; The innermost bits of my musical brain, you wrote. This archive was your most prized possession and I was the first person you shared them with. I was stunned. I wanted to reciprocate. I wanted to match your decision to trust.

I’ve shared this blog before with mixed results; the last time I showed it to the guy I was seeing it was not well received. I’d been made more than a little wary of sharing this collection, but I so badly wanted to share my roughly recorded thoughts. Message sent. It was out there, there was no taking it back. If I thought I was nervous moments ago, it was nothing compared with the anxiety I was feeling in the minutes leading up to your response: Subscribed. That’s pretty gutsy, putting yourself out there like that. I’m impressed.

My phone buzzed beside the bed, the screen illuminating the New Message notification and beneath it, the sender: the ex.

Several messages sent back and forth, my frustration growing with each, when you walked into the room and settled into bed beside me. I laid my phone down and buried my face in the pillow, my mind fairly well wrecked. The unexpected contact was not one I wanted to tackle that evening or, really, ever again. We read the messages allowed, I explained the loves of my past and my history of mistakes. We laid there in the dark for a few moments, my nose and lips pressed against your shoulder while I listened to our breathing match and slow. Out of the dark came your voice, shaking a little more than usual, but determined:

This isn’t really a thing that I do. I’m an overthinker, this sort of anxiety usually cripples me, but I want to start. I want to share with you.

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Sort Of

 

“I’m sort of seeing someone,” I catch myself saying, feeling an immediate tug of guilt, realizing what a lie this simple statement really is.

I’m not sort of  seeing someone.

I am quite intentionally seeing him.

I see his tired mind at the end of the day when work begins to loosen its hold on his thoughts. I see his smile-creased eyes as we dance around the kitchen preparing dinner. I see his eyes flutter closed as I pull his face to mine. I see his blue eyes rise and fall as we hop from story to story, from silly to serious and back again. I see his comfort as we settle into the loveseat, as our bodies overlap. I see the hunger in his eyes as he pulls my shirt up and over my head and arms. I see his slender frame, dewy and fresh, as we tiptoe from the shower to the bed. I see his face fall slack as sleep overtakes him.

And I know he sees me.

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It’s Only Time

It was a matter of years —YEARS— since I really understood myself, if I can even say such things are possible at that age. Too long, regardless, since I felt any sort of control over where I was headed and how I was going to get there. I had pulled the plug on one possible future for fear that it wasn’t going to be enough for either of us no matter how it turned out. It had been far too long since I had stepped out and made my own way.

It was a matter of months —MONTHS— after meeting the personification of reason and logic that I grew increasingly enamored by his focus and perceived emotional calm. I admired his mannerisms and ability to pull me back down to Earth when my mind left without me. I appreciated the predictability, but I wanted understanding. I wanted an outlet without judgement. I learned a few of the truths behind falling in love with a person not suited for me.

It was a matter of weeks —WEEKS— between when I decided that there was nothing to be upset over, nothing to hope to return to, nothing back there that I wanted anymore. I had no sooner reactivated my profile than you sent me a message. Carefully worded, but with clear intention and attention. You were intelligent and oh, so witty. Your messages brought me so many smiles in those first few days of shaking off the funk.

It was a matter of days —DAYS— after we began talking that we had plans to meet for dinner and ice cream. I showed up sweaty and panting from my ride with only minutes to spare before you were to arrive. Not having felt the nerves that day or even on the ride to the restaurant, I was suddenly overtaken by the ohmygod’s as soon as I saw the mess that was me in the bathroom mirror. ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. What am I doing? Am I ready for this? What do I want?

It was a matter of hours —HOURS— after that first date, after eating ice cream in the rain, after the first kiss you placed on my cheek that you sent me a message wherein you declared your desire to throwing social dating conventions aside to promptly and most hopefully request a second date. Sitting at my desk, surrounded by my daily work I couldn’t shake the smile from my face.

It was a matter of minutes —MINUTES— after we lay on the floor reminiscing over the music we couldn’t believe we ever stopped listening to that we started opening up. We spoke of our families and the quality of relationships we do or don’t have with them. We spoke of our pasts and the people we used to be. We spoke of where we are and where we hope to be headed. We shared little hopes and larger dreams with the soundtrack of my younger self playing softly over the gentle rustling of the midsummer breeze.

It is only a matter of seconds, my dear —SECONDS— of watching your hands, the way your eyes wrinkle at the corners when you laugh, before my affections began their pouring out, all and right away.

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