I’ve loved you a season now.
Somehow your eyes are growing softer and brighter with time and the colors around us more vibrant.
This new us is one where I know myself, where I stay intact, not bled into the fabric of “the couple.” I see myself, I see you – yet together we are much more than we are apart. And still the boundaries blur, especially when waking, starting in the night to find your arm warm and heavy, latching me to you. Bundled.
We trust each other, communicate in ways that make sense to only us. Like the night I am pining for the Atlantic, and you take me to that seafood restaurant. Waiting for our food, you explain water tension to me, outline mesocyclones, the properties of matter, what time really means – in stark contrast to the gaudy decor, the cliches of the young parents eating dinner near us, wondering why we’re inspecting the glasses so intently, craning our necks together, giggling like children.
There is a singular joy in that moment when I realize that you’re in a toppy mood and assault me with pleasure – that sudden silent spike of fear – then the falling, falling, falling –
I never quite land. Instead I wash up on some shore, uncertain of where I am – but certain of us.