Across the bed from you, you’ve been reading your notes, talking to yourself as you always do, caught up with what you need to do. The truth is: I enjoy being a voyeur, watching you — confident and level-headed — coolly going through your To-Dos one at a time. I can almost see you ticking off, on an imaginary list, each component of your work done.

I have none of that resolve, though I’d resolved to wait for you to complete your work. “One more chapter,” has become our refrain. As much as my body wants me to, I’m unwilling to simply fall to sleep tonight — and in your bed, too — without waiting for you to be with me before I do that.

So much has transpired between the last few posts and this: thank you for giving us one more chapter.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Testing

I woke up at three this morning, instinctively turning to stare at you.

What I was thinking, but didn’t say when you asked, was: I could really get used to this. I want to wake up with you every morning, if we can help it.

It doesn’t matter that you still fall asleep way earlier than I want you to; that you have no sense of direction, that sometimes I find out, mid-conversation, you have begun to sleep-talk.

There was this time, early on, when you suddenly broke into Mack The Knife without warning. You didn’t know all the words, but I collapsed instantly into a wave of Z-love, remembering how I had fallen for your lovely voice – so smoky, so jazzy.. like Ella. Then there was the other time you made me sing for you. All I could think of singing was you’re just too wonderful, too wonderful for words..

..and after all this time, I’m still singing the same song.

It was strange coming home without you tonight, after having had the luxury of going to sleep with you for two nights, and waking up next to you for two mornings. This place I call my home scarcely feels like “home” without you here, even if I have lived in it fourteen years.

They say the passion fades and gives way to a tarnishing familiarity, eventually. That much I have believed with all those before. You, however, still make me leap and lurch and long – with warmth and dizzy delight. With longing.

When I returned the room was exactly as we’d left it. Two bottles of water for you, one for each night. Creases in the sheets as we left it this morning, after a particularly extensive wakeup routine. My ridiculous arrangement of the pillows and sheets (you know I typically don’t bother).

It was here where we laid, months ago, quivering in fear and uncertainty, but just knowing the other’s innocent kiss was enough. I feel like a child just showing you all the spots, the few you, my clever little girl, hadn’t already figured out – here is where I sit stroking my stuffed duck while I talk to you every night, here is where I fought back trying not to want you, and here and now is where I succumb, so take me in your arms.

“You know, I think out of all the people I’ve gone out with, you’re probably the most techie.”

“But why? Why am I the most tacky?”

… 

I had you over the weekend in a manner not unlike the rest – yet one which neither of us were able to foresee. How was it possible we could become.. even closer? Each night I held you close, our bodies curled, foetal, our arms arched that way. Reaching for your pleasure. Your every gasp, every sound, triggering a zillion neurons, urging me on. And encouraged by the warmth of the place I have made my home, I broke into that signature idiotic grin, of the sort endorphin rush could never possibly replace.