by Lindsay Griffiths
Let’s saturate the empty air around us with conversation, your voice a sensation that I can’t help but smile to and while you lay your head in my lap, I let my fingers absentmindedly play in your curls. I yearn to hear all your stories, and lap up every word like a kitten does milk.
I’ve never seen you naked, but with every word you become increasingly bare to me.
No lies, nothing hidden, not even denying your underlying desire to touch me, which you resist insistently so as not to waste a moment or disrespect the body that God has given me.
And I too want to touch you.
I want to cuddle and be the little spoon and feel you whisper your dreams into the back of my neck, your lips tickling my nape.
I want to roll over and kiss your forehead a thousand times, because nine hundred and ninety nine is too few.
Hold me close but not too close- I might overdose and fall comatose on account of how dreamily real you are.
You are not a fantasy, not a distant deity, not a sexy specter, or an awkward obsession.
You are as real as the ground beneath my feet and I am as aware of your flaws as I am of the laws of gravity and how they sometimes fail me when I’m with you.
You know the code that is the outward expression of my inward emotion. You’ve caught my gist, you’ve ridden my wave, and you’ve picked up what I’ve put down even when it was dropped by mistake.
You’re that someone who turns my solos into duets, someone who gets me at my worst and at my best, from whom love comes first and judgment never.
You weather my crazy, and I tether my heart to yours.
