11.12.04 - 12:46 PM
I feel a little guilty. Like I've just stumbled into these perfect, perfect arms. Like all those years I spent lamenting over the nothing that I had were how I'd picture spending the rest of my life and now that it's over, now that I have so much I'm not sure how to act.
There's him, and there's me, curled up under the sheets with the TV flickering on the walls and our faces. There're our hands held on my chest, his pulse in my palm and my raging heart. There's his thick, resonant voice that I can feel down to his ribcage. There's this ambient warmth that follows him wherever he goes.
We stand in the doorway with the lights off, his hands in the small of my back, my fingers wrapped around the back of his neck. The only light is the distant glow of the streetlights and my cells firing up like a string of Christmas lights. My heart is a generator, pounding to keep me up while my knees give out.
His skin is so dewy and damp in my hands. I can't see his eyes in this light, but I know they're killing me. I know they're green and sad and the color of an ocean I always find myself drowning in.
He asks me if I ever forget to breathe and I tell him, All the time. All the fucking time. I don't tell him that it's usually only when I see him, because I always forget how beautiful he is. Some things about people you just can't stow away in your memory because it'll never do them justice.
I just want to plan a life-long date where we motel-hop across North America towards Barcelona. He could bring his skateboard and I could bring my typewriter. The point is that when I'm with him, I never want to leave, ever. One day I want to just live with him downtown on top of some record store doing dishes and brewing tea together.
This isn't some burn-out romance between high school junkies where all we do is fuck and fuck around. I'm not asking for a crazy time, I'm just asking for time. I just want to spend more time entangled in his arms and conversation. Wrapped up in his thick, incredible voice.
I want to leave and start again with him in the riptides of some Spanish city, the smell of kumeric and clove in the sands. I want to start again without boundaries or fear. I want to start again with his hands on my waist and my lips on his neck.
Here's to looking at the future, with his oceanic eyes and soft curls. Here's to looking at the future, with the veins in his arms and freckles on his hipbones. Here's to looking at the future. Cheers.
