I have a favorite corner in your house. The one where you talked at me. There was pain, but you were talking about something painful. -Some painful things-. Somebody else’s pain; your eyes were reaching out for -something-. And then, hands. It’s okay. We can be as complicated as you want. Some times I’m certain that I’m imagining it and try to leave it there. I can’t be 20 again, reliving every subtlety and creating meaning where only I live. But I touch you and it’s okay. It’s okay, it’s okay. You touch me back. You’re so warm, cuddly. Conscientious. Contentment floating atop layers of carefully-placed experience. Something bubbled to the surface in that corner and washed through those eyes.
Shared lies constructively interfere, amplifying the tension at a table set for four. Yesterday I was curious. Today I’m afraid. I know exactly what I would do if you got me alone and told me what was really on your mind. Knowing how I am about these things, I’d ask for permission first. For your benefit alone. It can still be my fault. So far, we’re half way there. I’m okay with going half the way for now.
I’m trying, slippery eel. To be patient. Kind. Unassuming. Less selfish. More joyful about what’s to come. I’ll always love her, but she doesn’t write. We’re both writers; short histories, long connections. Whether or not we ever fess up, something will still be there. I need your body against mine. I have to feel what’s really there. Lay on top of me for awhile. Peer into the rabbit hole.
Persuasion was never my job. Come help me take a walk?