Sensual Sunday – Valentine’s Edition

Valentine’s Day happened to fall on a Sunday this year. So, I was determined to do a Sensual Sunday post today. Here it is. Happy Valentine’s Day all of you lovers out there.

❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

wchofhlb

He writes. He observes. Quietly. Warmly. Kindly.

I woke up to his whispers.

“You looked so soft,” he said.

He used words like “elegant” and “curvy” and “lovely.”

“I took a photo of you. Look, here…see.” He shows me. I like it. I used to hate every photo of myself. Now I’m more selective with my hate of things, self and otherwise.

All freckled shoulders and my face buried in pillows. My pixie cut obviously well on its way past bob length. Look at that flip in my hair, I thought. It’s nice that the sheet decided to drape that way.

It’s sweet. And loving. And the kind of thing I always wanted in a lover. Somebody who would look at me when I am sleeping and think that I’m beautiful. When I’m not vying for attention or trying to be seductive, he still notices.

“It looks kind of like a ball gown,” he says. “Low in the back, of course. Elegant. You just look so beautiful.” His face searched mine and I saw a flash, that momentary request for approval – that I didn’t hate it and that it was ok that he took it.

I feel my face go soft. I smile.

“Yeah, I guess it does. The way it’s draped like that,” I say.

And I watch him, watching me. Messy hair and barrette falling out. But I don’t feel like a disaster. I feel like I am glowing. And the sheets are so soft and warm. The sun glow is even cooperative, diffuse and comforting. And he puts a hand to my leg and strokes it and then leans in to kiss me. I am at peace in that moment. All of myself focused on that kiss. It’s all I have to offer at this moment in time and I guess, for now, it’s enough.

Happy Valentine’s Day – A Racing Brain At 4am

wchbwLaying there, one fleshy pale leg resting on top of yours. Layers of blankets hugging us to the bed, I pretzel and twist – one of my arms over my head, one of yours, over yours. I find your fingers with my left hand and you squeeze them, even though you are mostly asleep. I try to touch as much of my skin to yours as I can, curved like a bean next to you. I lay my head in the sweet spot that your body has made for it. Was made for it, long before I met you. When you were born, maybe. I put my right arm across your chest. I know you love this – a woman resting on your chest. “There is something so…satisfying…beautiful, about it,” you once said. Or something like it.  And even years later there is an impression there, and an image in my head. It’s faded like a washed-out photograph. You know the one. And it doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s there. Maybe it always will be. I decide it doesn’t matter and I start a poem in my head. God, it’s almost 4 a.m. and I am composing words as I feel you breathe. None of the words are good enough. Some of them don’t even make sense. I will never be good enough, my brain says. But you already are, I counter. Your thigh is twice the circumference as his. And it feels good for that not to be something I hate. It’s a non-issue. I take that back. It’s a celebration. Continue reading

Late Night Driving

Went on a late night drive with Will. He was restless and happy when he came home from rehearsal. Hair mussed up from his moon roof, chilled-neck hug and then a pat on my backside. “Let’s go on a drive,” he said.  “I want to take you out somewhere.  I don’t know if anything is open, but the night is amazing and I want to take you out.  Maybe we can just drive and find a little place.  Soft-serve maybe.  Maybe pie.”

I said I didn’t think we’d find any soft-serve, but maybe we could find a diner and some pie.  “Yes, let’s go.  I’d love to take a ride with you.”

Cool and humid night air.  Windows down. Talking about stuff we did when we were kids and why we’re always trying to capture that wonder you feel when you discovered something new. The roads were empty and nothing was open. Missed the I-Hop by ten minutes. We’d pass clumps of trees filled with singing insects, then buildings covered in windows, lights on, but no life inside. End of the world, but not.  Empty parking lots. Parts of Route 1 smooth as butter all black and shiny, other parts pocked and shaking the car. We were holding hands and saying I love you, too many times (if there is a such thing, when you mean it, and we did).

Hardly anybody was driving like a jerk and mostly we had the road. It reminded me of being on the road with my family – military, back and forth – California then Virginia, then California, then Virginia, then Texas and Virginia again.  Many hours on the road, watching the streetlights go by.  There was no portable DVD player, just the games my mom and dad made up.  Dad would say, “Hey, there’s a rub-broka,” and we were supposed to figure out what it meant. Mom would toss out “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral” questions and my sister and I would play “Paddidle.”  When games grew old it turned to sisters annoying each other.

“Mom, she’s touching me!”

“Stop touching your sister!”

“Mom she’s not on her side!”

“Stay on your side!”

Stopping at I-Hops and Shoney’s and Denny’s on whatever route my dad decided for this trip. There’s something exciting about eating in a nearly empty diner after midnight. That’s still true for me.  A middle-of-night visit to Silver Diner excites some part of me that’s still wild and still seven.  You’re not supposed to eat in the middle of the night.  You’re not supposed to especially eat in the middle of the night at a restaurant.  Always – silver dollar pancakes and “dippy eggs” – usually with milk, or hot chocolate (with whipped cream) if I could convince my parents. There is something decadent about a spherical scoop of whipped butter that spreads neatly over the hotcakes. Mom would eye my syrup portion – I always overdid it, even for a runty beanpole of a kid, she didn’t like my sugar addiction. Grape Nehi, grape-jelly donuts (powdered please), grape Now & Laters, grape Pixie Sticks, grape Tootsie Pops.  I might have had a thing about grape.  I ate a lot and burned it hard and fast, running, climbing, skating, swinging, flipping, jumping – nonstop.

Will and I talked about camping and fishing and he kept laughing and telling me how cute I am, and I held it.  He told me his family went on a lot of camping trips and I tried to count mine.  Not a lot, but enough, I thought.  And for some reason paddle-boats were amazing to me.

He’d rub my thigh with his palm.  We’d talk about the empty buildings.  The lights.

“Does that one look open?”

“I think it closes at midnight.”

“Phone says there’s a Tastee Diner nearby that’s 24 hours.”

“That one’s dinky and really a greasy spoon, you sure you wanna try it?”  He knows more about these things than I do.  He knows these roads.  He knows what everything used to be.

“Maybe not.  I’m fine just driving.  Sorry we can’t find any pie for ya.”  He loves pie.

“It’s ok, I’m fine, too.”

We listened to a podcast we recorded together that had just been posted.  We got home before it was over and we sat in the car, windows down, leaning into each other, listening to us telling the story of how we met.

Now we’re both back in the house, distracted by pixels and electronic machines.  But I’m going to end this now and go climb into bed with the love of my life.

Good night.

The Wabi-Sabi Scar

We poured out our hearts in whispers.  You spoke, and I listened to your words, as we were sinking into the marshmallow bed.  Our faces were shadows only inches apart, and the room was quiet the way an adult’s bedroom is at night – all fan whirs and cotton sheet friction, and breathing.

Then I spoke and you listened.  Deeply.  Our perspectives were different, but our hearts in synchronization.

We talked about that time.  That scar.  The bad one.   And how it looked different from our respective views.  And then you said something like, our love has been tended carefully, like a bonsai tree.  Our love is like a wabi-sabi bowl, more beautiful for the broken part that was fixed.  And I imagined the crack that split us almost in half, now filled with gold.  Precious, strong, beautiful.  And I pondered that for a moment, ready to hold it a bit closer and replace my scar with a vein of gold.  Then you said that we, us, our love, is entwined … we are part of each other.  So tangled up and inseparable.  And I saw us, like a Klimt painting, gold swirls and stars, unable to tell where you end and I begin, as we float through the universe enveloped in a blanket of trust and love.  And as if on cue, you said that if you were to die and your spirit was floating around out there, that you would wait for me.   You would wait for my spirit to come find you when it was time and we would spend our time in the other-ether together.  Or something so close to that.  And I kept trying to repeat the last thing you said in my head so I wouldn’t forget it and could write it in our journal.  Then I chided myself for not just enjoying the moment and feeling compelled to record everything, which isn’t the same as engraving it on my heart.  So I just lay there, looking at the dark shape of your head and listened to your sweet protestations.  About Hindu re-incarnation and finding each other sooner next time.

I confessed to you – about then, the “bad” then … about something the scar left behind.  The thought that you chose me for this life … but the idea lingered that you saved your ether for her.  Maybe it’s selfish to want you throughout whatever transformations our souls will take (if any), but I can’t help myself, but I also couldn’t ask you for it.  And I cried, because you said it without even knowing I was living with that pain.  You reached out your fingers and touched that hurt with salve, easing the burn.  And I cried.  And you put your lips in my hair and told me how well we fit and how glad you are that we fought so hard for the us we are now.  And I melted into your embrace.

I told you about how I don’t like to write about deeply personal things in my blogs like I used to.  It feels so much more dangerous now than it once was.  And I wondered if writing about what has passed between us tonight was a mistake.  Or somehow cheapened it.  Or maybe it was a weird kind of bragging about recovering love from ashes.  But then I decided that I would write it all down because I wanted to remember it.  And I was also writing it for couples who are in a place that feels so dark and desperate they don’t think they will ever recover, because we did.

Tomorrow I am going to write some of the things you said into our couple’s journal.  I want to keep it close and remind myself that there is always light, even on a very dark night.

I’m super tired and can’t find the energy to look for an image to put with this or proofread it.  Goodnight ❤