He’s sitting in the corner of my living room, in a beautiful wooden rocking chair, reading books under a dull, yellow lamp. He is handsome, but not in a traditional sense. He wears glasses, a beard, has a huge toothy grin, sparkling eyes, and a lyrical voice. He is magical. He holds the book up to his face, one leg crossed over the other, and smiles as he slowly flips the pages, entranced by words. My words. The fire pops. The fire crackles.
As I’ve grown, so has he. His interests grew. He became a real person. He plays the piano in the evenings, while I giggle and dance in circles on antique, woven rugs. We bike through redwoods. We hold hands in bed. We trace each other’s noses, squeeze each other’s cheeks (both kinds), and bite each other’s toes. We have no boundaries.
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Our house was quiet from outside, but full of life within. It was warm: creamy oranges, soft browns, tans, egg-whites, blues, greens. Earthy. With beautiful bursts of red, fire, passion, something wild and intangible, though we never stopped trying to touch, touch, touch. Outside was still. We were alone, isolated, tucked snuggly in a forest of tangled, rich greens.
His energy was boundless - he ran, he skipped, he jumped, he was full of laughter and life. But he also knew it was okay to cry, he wasn’t afraid of feeling. Anger, joy, overwhelming agony - they would radiate from him with a neon buzz that sent my bones into a quivering mess. He turned me into a thick, tepid custard and he let me seep into his crevices.
We rode bicycles around town, with the little seats on the back to hold our kids. Our daughter rode on his bike, our son on mine. Two kids. I had been worried about raising a child with the wrong person, more than I was about even bringing up a child in the first place. He helped me get over the insecurities I had about being a mother.
He had a captivating spirit, he told stories, he played music, he wrote and he sang and he carried me from one room to the next, when I was too drowsy to carry myself. He gave me piggy back rides, I gave him this-little-piggy tales with his toes.
We fucked to deftones and Damien Rice and Incubus and Bill Withers and John Coltrane. We didn’t need to make love because we already had it, we bathed in it - together - day in and day out. We didn’t need reassurance, but we gave it to one another because we knew it was awfully nice to hear - it was nice to be reminded we were loved.
We didn’t stop traveling, long into our old age. We went on exhausting hikes up mountain sides, we climbed trees and jumped off bridges, through waterfalls, into oceans. All the while, we would bitch and moan and shout, but he knew that just wrapping me in his arms would calm me down. He knew all I ever wanted was some kind of human contact - something just to know I wasn’t alone. He knew because he was the same way. He loved to be touched, to be cradled, to be wanted.
I had imagined our arguments, our fears, our sex, our laughter. We were needy and affectionate and we were all the more beautiful for it.
I have loved this man all my life. It hurts to come back to him, to see how wrong I was in thinking all the boys I have known up to this point were in some way even remotely close to him.
It worries me now that I’ve seen him, I’ve touched him. I’ve watched him come to life before my eyes and I’ve seen his fall into self-contentment, enraptured by novels and music and all those small things he holds so close. I’ve seen his face mold into a solemn expression of deep thought, genuine concern. I’ve seen it confused and angry and I’ve seen it form in ways I never knew it could - I never imagined it would.
I’ve heard the way he speaks, the way he laughs. I’ve held his breath in my mouth and I’ve given him my own. I’ve grown resentful, because I am afraid of losing him, even though I know it isn’t my time to have him. Even though I know it very well may never be.
I’m afraid to let him slip away. I’m afraid because how many people can say they’ve actually met the person they thought they’d only ever see in their dreams? It sounds silly, I know, but I’ve never felt so sure.
I sit in my rocking chair, beside the fire, and I watch him read over his books, his glasses slipping down his nose. His head is a bare melon, resting comfortably in his slender piano-playing hands, and my eyes crinkle at the corners, because I finally understand how bliss feels.
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At a certain age (I want to say around eight or so), I became very suddenly ashamed of having an overtly feminine side. I told myself I had to be a brick wall - I had to punch things, scream, bite into bloody, raw flesh like a fucking savage. I even went through this long phase of refusing to wear dresses. Dresses were for girls. I’m not a girl. I’m a tomBOY. I wear PANTS. Weddings? Whatever. Babies? Ew. Gross. I have an education to think about and a career and boys can’t get in my way.
To an extent, I am still this way. I do not think of myself as girly, but I do embrace my womanliness. I believe in love and I have experienced love. I do wish to have an eternal other some day (if that exists), but I am perfectly content with being alone, otherwise. In fact, at this stage in my life, I think it is incredibly important that I remain so.
I have had my fair share of “boyfriends.” In fact, I have had a boyfriend since 5th grade, up until I was 20 years old. A whole decade. A 10-year streak of boyfriends, with no more than a month break in between. But even throughout all of this, I constantly tried to muffle any desire of having the elaborate wedding, raising a family, falling into a deep love that lasted even after death. I tried to hide any inkling of romance.
It would leak out in what I wrote. To the extent where I could feel even the smallest of emotions perspiring from my pores. I would sweat in vibrant blues, purples, greens, oranges, and then quickly wipe my brow of it, before anyone could tell. For so long, I have been ashamed of the subjects I find to be closest to my heart. Love. Love, love, love. It hasn’t been until recently that I’ve come to peace with writing about what I know best. Feeling. Emotion. The interactions between people.
For as long as I can remember, I have dreamt of my severed half.
He’s a man, he’s real, he’s attainable, and I love him. I love you. I am sorry.
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