I can’t bring myself to change the subject. First because hearing that little tremor in your voice went straight through me in the most delightful of ways and secondly because I like reminding you of the way I felt…. feel… am feeling.
You have no idea how tempted I am to tempt you. You have no idea how hard I fight here. Or do you? You are so quiet and distant that I never can tell what you are feeling. I miss the knowing. I lay in my bed each night and wonder if you think of me… and softly believe you do… as I relinquish my hands to the dream of you and allow them free reign.
You make me ashamed for myself, all the time I spent scoffing at others for being helpless to the pull of another. I think of them now and wish I could see them long enough to apologize… and to smile to share that I share the feeling… finally. I find that I grieve the years of feeling smugly aloof from feeling… even as I celebrate the feeling I have… it is a strange mix of things, conflicting and complimentary, paradox all.
I think of you telling me how wonderful I smell, how wonderful I taste… and I am happy that even our chemicals compliment one another. I could ramble for some time about the scent and texture of you… about how I thrill to nestle close and savor you.
I am torn between this sweetness of need and the dry, logical one here…. they fight really quite bitterly, though I think the emotions are winning. I cannot say I at all regret the intellectual loss. Nothing of logic ever brought this much delight, this slow, strumming pleasure that is at once intoxicating and liberating. I want to feel this free. You cannot know how much I appreciate you for being someone who can bring this to me.
The interesting thing to me is how much of that very contrary intellect is taken with you. To talk with you, to listen to you, to receive your thoughts and compare/contrast them with my own, to lightly debate, to discuss, to simply enjoy the reality of equality in our exchanges… there is only the smallest aspect of me that fights to create distance here… and that, not so much stridently as obligatory. I fear the injury that may yet come to pass, but would rather suffer it than the injury that will be should I turn from you.
So much of me is impatience and impetuous and very little do I know of witholding myself. I never quite learned it. I never really wanted to learn it. Not so much needful of instant gratification so much as to live fully… not sure if that distinction can be conveyed as I would like. I have waited for many things in my life… not the least of which is simply to feel this way.
I did not seek it, nor wish to find it in this corner where all things must be secret…. I did not expect to find it here. But I have… and I would not set it aside simply because it isn’t perfect. Indeed, in some ways, I treasure it all the more that it is not… it is difficult and inconvenient and precarious… and I embrace it despite it all, because it is the first I’ve experienced it and its imperfection is itself somehow perfect.
I would be too wary of perfection, I am not one upon whom such things are visited. Only the semblance, all too soon revealed to be much less and usually at my expense. No, I would not have the ability to believe in fairy tales. If anything, I am the ash child, Cinderella content by the hearth.
It is amusing to me how much I tell myself I have a handle on this, and yet, a mere few moments of talking to you and I am flushed to the point that people are asking me if I feel well (yes, very, thank you) and here I sit, letting my thoughts spill over my body and rush down to my eager fingertips to fly to you.
I do not think this is a temporary insanity, though likely insanity, indeed.