Since their first four hour phone conversation it had been exactly 3 years and one month. During that time they had ups and downs, learning to see one another, learning how to love in ways neither had experienced before.
Maturing. Not infatuation any longer. More intimate than physical alone. Fun and satisfying on a level deeper than either had experienced.
Tonight He was alone at his apartment 100 miles away from Her. The plan was they would not see each other again until the music festival on September 15 – a full 20 days after they had last held each other in bed.
Life had changed, become somewhat complicated, for both of them. Her brother, sister-in-law and three dogs had moved in. He had taken that “career job” He had put off for so long.
Tonight, after a couple playful texts from Her, He longed. He longed for the smell of Her, Her ample hair pushed against His face as He held Her in bed. The softness of her body against Him. The mischievous smile She seemed to have at the slightest provocation.
He knew She missed as well. The foot massage followed by the playful tickles. The safety She felt in His arms each night. Him crawling back into bed with Her just before Her alarm and holding Her as she went through the 30 minute ritual of waking.
Sometimes, like tonight, the distance seemed hard. He thought of her and pulled a pillow to His chest and hoped to dream of Her.
Sex is an itch you can scratch.
Love is an itch in that part of your back you can’t reach and you need someone to scratch it for you.
For two years now She had been His joy.
He was working through a difficult time. Walking through mud. Business was picking up, His long hours were beginning to bear fruit, emotionally He was tired.
They were seeing each other less to give Him time to right His ship. She had come to His last weekend and it was delightful. Monday at 6am they waved goodbye and He was back to work.
When He knew they would be apart He would take down His pictures of Her. The wallpaper on His phone and computers changed from Her smile to something that didn’t immediately remind Him of Her. Pictures that didn’t create the longing to feel Her pressed against Him, tightly encircled by His arms.
Today he put them back up again, maybe only for a day. He needed the energy, the peace, the touchless embrace of Her smile.
And for the first time this weekend, He felt joy.
I try to understand the words you’re not saying,
the soul buried deep beneath the veneer of smiles and laughter,
avoiding my gaze that sees you in spite of yourself.
Hiding is an art for you, a skill from a lifetime of practice.
You only reveal to others what you want them to see.
The confident, the wise, the controlled.
Somehow I read the tea leaves. Seeing glimpses of real.
The distance of text messages and phone calls made it easier.
No eyes on you.
Gradually you let me in. Testing the waters. Scared yet hoping.
Someone who might see you, love you as you are.
Yet waiting for the second shoe to drop.
You surrendered your body, but it was just a body.
You had surrendered it once before without being seen.
An anonymous placeholder.
We navigated together the revelations.
The hurt. The misunderstandings.
Mishearing words never spoken.
“You only pursue me because I run” you said.
Not realizing the truth:
I pursue you because I see you.
Every morning He ate eggs. Jelled yokes. Some potatoes.
One can eat eggs plain and get the proper nutrition. Protein, good fats, zinc. But eggs without seasoning are bland. Flavorless.
His life before He met Her was unseasoned eggs. He lived with purpose, planned His time, achieved His goals. Happy but not joyful.
Over the last many months She had changed His life. There were still goals and plans. Still work to be done. The minutia of life.
But Her smile, Her eyes, Her words, Her touch, Her adventures had given his egg life something He hadn’t experienced in a long time.
She brought flavor to His life.
When they were together whether it was going to a concert or planting flowers or just sharing a morning coffee, it became joy. Flavorful.
His life tasted so much better with Her in it.
Holding Her hand probably seemed insignificant to onlookers. Just a couple. Mindlessly holding hands. It was a simple thing couples do.
To Him, it meant more.
He could feel Her. The texture of her skin. Her warmth. The way Her fingers caressed His. The quiet assurance She was at His side.
It was intimate in a way most could never understand nor experience.
Enjoyed this poem from John S today. Found it represented how I feel often. Comments are shut off here, comment at his blog.
Likened to an oval space
where I’m pressing to the wall
and move ’round its circumference
with caution and recall.
I sense it as a darkened play
just beyond my reach,
and substance in the shadows
are thin and disbelieved.
Her touch, in words, assuages fear-
a hold to ban the ill,
the empty holes and voids,
the impressions- touches fill.
Grip me with affection’s tongue
fast with lake and sun,
embrace me with your tumult
that leads us – come undone.
Such is this, caress’ way
in aftermath beyond,
a soothing wisp, a kiss she shares
and looming dark is gone.
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