Four writers for the price of one blog
I’ve seen his heart, and I love it. I love him, but I have not loved him. Not carnally. His body is a mystery to me, but I’ve let my imagination draw a detailed map of it. The taste. The smell. The feel. Until this point, it has been enough to satisfy me.
We’re friends, after all. Kindred spirits, even.
But I can’t hold it in anymore. My desire is like a tide that doesn’t ebb. It spills out of my words, makes my voice heavy and hot when I speak to him. Can he hear it in my laughter? The little hiccup and moan right before the whoop? He has to know by now that I don’t laugh like that for anyone else. I can’t.
Maybe he’s clueless. Maybe not. The space between knowing and not knowing is so painfully empty and cold it makes my teeth chatter. I’d assume I have no hope, but for the way he says my name. He changed it from a pronoun to a prayer – a sacred meditation. A wish.
But is it his wish, or mine?
I’ve almost confessed everything so many times it’s a script that repeats in my head on a loop. Every second he doesn’t know is a moment wasted, but fear stays my hand. It’s not a fear of losing him, but of what will happen if he stays. I’m used to loss and the constant state of wanting. It’s been my weight to bear my whole life. He’d fill me to bursting, and I’m a starving woman. I’m afraid it would all come back up.
What would I say? Words are flat and flimsy compared to the feeling.
What promises would I utter, if I found the strength? I can only offer everything.
He can walk the wild, sometimes dilapidated byways of my mind. The monsters there will only bow to his indomitable will. He can pass safely where others have sweat, struggled, and surrendered because unlike them, he took the time to earn the privilege.
He can take what he wants and leave the rest – there will always be more than he could ever process or consume in a lifetime. I want to him to see his own uncalculable worth through my eyes. Maybe he’d find the transfiguration overwhelming; after all, he’s used to seeing a common man when he looks at himself in the mirror. Maybe he’d fear he could never fulfill my expectation of him. He’s above and beyond anything my fertile imagination could ever manufacture… he’s real. But not mine. I can’t touch this dream made flesh unless he wills it.
Will he? Will it?
The standing question was once better than the wrong answer, but not anymore. I’m his regardless. I’d rather weep my desire for him than deceive myself into thinking I’d be happy in another’s arms.
He is worth it all.
Every tear I cried for people lesser than him. The countless nights I spent in vigil to my unfulfilled desires. The loneliness. The despair. He was the dawn that broke through the darkness I’d willed myself into getting used to. He filled me when I thought my cup was already full. I want to know more of this magic he’s wrought with his seemingly innocent hands…
The mere thought makes me arc and crackle.
For once, I’m not looking behind to the familiar pains that I thought defined me. The promise of him is better than a guarantee of mediocrity, since anyone else isn’t as much as he is – they are only random parts, while he is everything.
For once my tears are tinged with joy as well as longing.
For once I feel hope as well as heartache.