One day I’d like to pick up an instrument with a bigger range (than a ukulele), and start writing my own material. It’d be even better if I could form a duo with a person I was romantically involved with, like The Dresden Dolls or Wild Strawberries.
Sometimes The Dresden Dolls play extended versions of their songs at concerts. The way they interact reveals such intimacy. In each face, you can see how they’re completely lost to the music in those moments of dissonant bliss, but they’re lost together. From body language alone, they read each other for timing, volume, and intensity, until they feel where the other is going by instinct. That kind of chemistry is rare, and it’d be amazing to be able to share that with someone.
I should be happy. Or feeling bittersweet, at least. On the one hand, I’m thankful to have had the chance to share so many things with her:
- listening to Bring Me The Disco King (Lohner Remix), as she sat curled in my lap in the darkness of my room
- runs for bubble tea before settling in for the night with a movie or two
- a road trip to Toronto, where I got to introduce her to my friends, Pacific Mall, and dragon’s beard candy
- parties at Pat and Jen’s, with board games, Rock Band, delicious food, amazing people, and general silliness
- moments like this
- looking into her eyes while our bodies were locked in blankets on the living room floor
- reading my favourite parts of The Prophet to her
- just the two of us going to dim sum on a beautiful Saturday morning, and introducing her to a medley of new dishes
But there’s one thing I regret, and that’s not being able to spend the night with her, for she had never slept over, you see. Sure, there were times when we stayed awake well past sunrise, with only the touch of hand and flesh as silent dialogue, my desire to prolong the pleasure driving my will to stay awake to every moment possible with her. Those are some of my favourite memories. But the sleep that eventually took us was only our bodies passing out briefly from exhaustion, and when we woke, she’d be gone soon after.
There are other things I wish I had had the chance to do while it lasted — sharing a relaxing bath, photography and video ideas, getting involved in a deep co-op game — but none of them were as important as a night spent sleeping together.
A long time ago, I wrote about how a girlfriend helped me figure out the importance of the night because of my earlier romances, and the situations that never let me share something as simple as sleep, the most intimate of intimates.
In a relationship, sharing the night is more important than sharing fluids. Falling asleep with someone is an acceptance of trust, a way of saying that we’re comfortable enough to drift into our subconscious minds.
Perhaps it was my fault for keeping her awake. I wonder now, if on one night, I should have let myself sleep, instead of letting our passion take us long into the next day.
There were patches of skin on her body that would build, and turn white, and flake.
She was always self-conscious of those areas, to the point of tears, but I called them my kissing map, as each patch would lead my lips to the next. In the dark, the spots revealed themselves in their texture, like delicate wounds. How different they tasted, how strange that skin felt against my own.
I would always kiss those spots, in hopes that my lips would convince her that she had nothing to be self-conscious about around me. To ease, and share their burden.
To acknowledge that she was flawed, as we all are on earth, but I still loved and accepted her, despite it all.
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.
Not that I let myself fall for her.
My heart never gave me a choice.