August 25, 2002
Relevance
At approximately a quarter after two last evening I was curled on Mike's couch, watching Brave New World and marveling at the beautiful actor who depicted John, a facet of the film very much missed by me last I saw it several years ago.
At two thirty I ventured into the computer room, where he and one of his coworkers (also named Mike) were making vain efforts to format the hard drive for his new computer. I put my arms around him a moment, he looked at me sadly and apologized for being so occupied.
I nodded.
At three a.m. I abandoned the couch for the dark and quiet that was his bedroom, pulling the covers up to my chin and cuddling close to one of his pillows, a poor substitute for his body. I slept.
Of something like twenty-four after three, there is soft pressure on the mattress, and I stir as his body settles alongside mine. They're almost done, he says. He's trying to get rid of him, he says. He kisses me, and for some reason I just feel like my heart is breaking when I look at him in the lovely-fuzzy darkness. They're almost done, he says. He's trying to get rid of him, he says.
I nodded.
At a quarter until four I can discern through the walls the muffled sounds of farewells, I hear the front door open and close. My body tenses, my muscles anticipate him, my limbs itch to have him. I hear him enter, but do not turn over. There is a rustling, he has removed his shoes. There is the sound of a lighter snapping as it is lit, he is lighting a candle. There is movement, the blankets are pushed back and he slips in beside me.
I roll over and my eyes are aching behind the curtain of my hair.
Sometime after this time stopped.
My cheek is pressed against his bare chest, my arms are wrapped tight about him, I cannot get him close enough. I cannot stay, but how can I leave?
My mouth is dry. I lick my lips, I swallow, I open and close and knock teeth softly together. The silence is pregnant with those things we cannot say, those things we are just waiting to say.
I couldn't wait.
I take a deep breath, the sound magnified by lack of others. Mike's hands are tracing slowly the curve of my back.
"I love you." Not quickly, not slow, slightly muffled. I sit up, but do not meet his eyes, not even in the dark. "And it's okay if you don't say it back."
Maybe he studied me in the darkness.
"I was wondering who was going to say it first."
He pulls me tighter to him, I feel my eyes welling up with tears. A weight has been lifted, and the liberation of honesty blooms like a flower in my soul.
He leans back, cups my head with his hand, his lips roam over my face, kissing my brow, my eyes, the corners of my mouth. He pulls back, looks at me a long, delicate moment.
"I love you, too."
I cry; sweet, little tears puckering in my eyes and dripping slowly down. I bury my head in his shoulder and cry because he means it, because it is not obligatory, because it was not pried, not persuaded, because it was given, because it was true. I cry because I love him and he loves me, too, I cry because there is something real and worthy about me that he has somehow seen. I cry because I was not lying, and because I believe him.
I cry because this man is more beautiful than poetry.
astera at 11:22 a.m.