I loved that date, our leisurely stroll around Sacramento.
I love so many of our dates, dates that aren’t even “dates”, just time spent talking or in bed or in a half-comatose condition on the couch as we recover from the work week but always touching–his arm around my shoulders, my hand on his thigh, re-connecting even when we’re too weary to do anything more.
I love all of it, all of this.
I write down our adventures, little vignettes against the forgetfulness of the future. I write about the flat plane of your hip where I like to put my hand when we are in bed together. I write about the deep kisses, the longing like live electricity, the crushing grip of your body on mine, the tender touch of your fingertips. I write about the sharp blue November sky, the lazy languid days of July, the first time we almost fought, the last time I talked in my sleep.
I write it all down, to keep close to my heart, and with every word my happiness is palpable, a real thing, a character hiding in the shadows of every story.
And between the lines–
–between the lines, between the lines….
….is it love?
Does it matter?
I am drunk on the happiness of every moment.
I no longer fear when the wine runs out, when the door closes, when the party is over.
It has been enough, to know you now, to have these days, to hold these stories close and dear.
I had been alone so long, empty and unseen, only functioning on the outside but missing so much behind closed doors, the only place I truly seem to be myself.
Thank you, for our stories, for our moments–for everything.