We sit on the couch with only the air between us. The windows are always open here; the door is always unlocked. Sometimes the air is cold and there’s not a lot of it in between us. We surprise ourselves with sure movements.
Everything is easy. I think she understands. I think I do too. I try not to think a lot, but I could talk with her until my language fails and my eyes droop. That’s been happening sooner lately (I’m not well).
But I still think she understands. I betray myself in hoping. I may keep a schedule and wear a watch and dust and make my bed every morning, but I’ll still take a chance on an honest heart.
May I never become to cold and bitter for that, for she warms me and brings me comfort and in our fits of intellectual and emotional passion she reminds me of my humanness.
For she reminds me to breathe, or makes me forget how to altogether.
It’s never coming across how I mean. Despite all the lyricism I’m capable of I would boil it down to the simplest terms language could produce just to say: I forgot I could feel this way.
It doesn’t soften my depression or remove my stress, but it’s something. I forgot how to breath because of something good for the first time in as long as I can remember. I remember how those unexpected deaths deflated my lungs and how abandonment collapsed my airways. I remember how the pain I caused and the pain I was dealt stopped me short, mid-breath, unsure of my own nervous response.
But an innocent joy? I thought time and time again, “Surely, I’ve felt this way before. This can’t be the first time I enjoyed company like this.” But I’m older now. I’m pragmatic. I’m not cold. I’m not even guarded. But I know myself better.
I attempt to ward off overthinking and comparatively, I’m doing very well in that regard. But something stands out here. And I want to pay attention to this reaction and the succeeding events.
I don’t want to go to sleep tonight, because I know that I won’t want to wake up.