this won’t be good enough.
October 2, 2009 § 1 Comment
I’m the type of person who cannot sleep for more than 6 hours. It’s often to my disadvantage because I tend to spend the first hours of the day — my favorite time — alone. Yet, most of the time, I’m not alone.
My eyes open, and I feel this amazing fullness. My body senses what’s happening. Your chin is resting on my shoulder, and your arms envelop my small body. I stay there for a moment, nest deeper in our pose, and, reveling, I close my eyes and sigh. Breathing sweet air and tingling all over. I become restless, so I move away from you and lie on your bed next to you as you sleep. At this point, it’ll be hours before you rouse for your day. And while we’re together, we’re apart.
I am on my own on a bed with a body, a painting of perfection to watch and to admire. I’ve told you before how beautiful you are.
I prop myself up with my elbows, and I lean my journal against your pillow. My pen soars from line to line as I write and remember the way we were just hours before, when we were naked while not being naked at all. I love our talks. I love learning about your thoughts, the things that make you human, kind, beautiful. You trust me with those thoughts, and that trust makes whatever this is that we have more intense for me.
The light from your window catches on the translucent hairs on your smooth tan skin. Your skin seems to radiate. It seems to glow with the same warmth with which your heart operates. With the same heat in your breath when your lips are on mine. Your chest fills with air and levels down in this slow, even rhythm. Your pulse is a visible beating in your neck. I move closer to you, facing you. I trace the outline of your body with my pointer finger, and I’m wondering whether you’re really there. With me. I can’t really handle what the sight of you like this does to me. It is holy.
Your face and the slits of your eyes. Calm lids, relaxing, natural. The downhill incline of your brows — they make you look so much like a child, thoughtful. The ridge of your nose, the nose that finds its home in the nape of my neck and the small spaces throughout. And your lips’ curves, plateauing and falling, full without ever filling me. What I do for your kisses. The slow kisses, the inextricable link between lip and heart, the kisses that feel more like cries. When you sleep, I press my lips gently against yours, just to feel myself fall — just to feel myself trip over you.
I don’t think I’ll ever capture what this feels like in words.