She is the light, I am the prism.
She is the words, I am the voice.
She is the viola string, I am the vibration.
She is the bud, I am the bloom.
She is the life, I am the living.
She is the heart, I am the pulse.
She is the medium, I am the message.
She is the water, I am the waves.
In the dark, our bodies fit like puzzle pieces — face in neck, crest in valley, curve in curve. I’m completely vulnerable when she lets me love her like this. She brings my guard down.
It’s the way she makes me happy without trying. The way I’m filled with tenderness every time I feel the warmth of her skin against mine. The way her existence gives me hope for the rest of the world.
If I chose to fall back on old habits and kept my distance to protect myself, I wouldn’t know this ineffable feeling. I may get hurt, but it’s worth every moment I can be next to her.
Maybe she’s right, and I’ll feel differently by the time it’s necessary. Until then, there’s no use in fighting it.
My heart never gave me a choice.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
—He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats
She knows how much I’ve fallen for her.
And by giving her my heart in such a way, she’s sharing the burden. The last thing she wants to do is hurt me, and she thinks herself selfish for wanting to be held just so. But I know what I’m getting into. I know the risks.
There’s no point in denying ourselves the joy of what we have now. To be lying next to each other when we talk into the early hours of the day, bodies pressed against one another while the morning light washes over us, is worth any chance at being hurt. We can deal with the inevitable later.
So she treads softly, on me and my heart.
And rests her head on my chest when I hold her.
When I left, the flowers on my kitchen table looked like this:
When I got back, to my surprise, they looked like this:
She made the bouquet herself — hand-picked the flowers, chose the colours, even made sure it was symmetrical, knowing my odd habits1 — and left them there to greet me from my journey home.
I never ask for these things but she does them anyway.
Which is exactly what makes them so significant.
It’s a world where every song is a journey, every chord is more dulcet than the last, and I don’t want to, I need to dance.
It’s not a simple feeling. There’s so much to consider — new realizations, unfamiliar territory, questions of fate, unresolved proprieties, inevitable change — that it’s all a mix of emotions unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. But who says that life has to be simple? All I know for sure is that I love her, even if she doesn’t love me the same way.
And for now, I’ll wear this smile like my heart on my sleeve.