Sunday, Aug. 11, 2019 @ 11:40 am
Crack the Shutters
One year ago, we were in the midst of a flurry of summer visitors. My family, his family, friends, all converging on our small house nestled in the mountains. One night, when I was exhausted from being a host and searching for support, on one of the last nights in which we shared a bed (and only because all of the beds in the house were full), I reached over and kissed him. I remember the courage that it took to reach out to him. I remember the wonderment of feeling him respond to me. A glimpse of intimacy, a taste of what was missing. A tenderness.
That was the last time that we kissed. In the next entry, a week later, I question my relationship and write about desperately wanting to feel loved and wanted.
One year later, I wake up with Russell in my bed. His smooth brown skin against my white sheets. The sun bright, the birds calling outside, and a breeze that tosses small leaves in through the window that fall into the sheets around us. I pick up one of the small leaves and twirl it between my fingers. He wakes and watches as I place the leaf on the bedside table.
I run my fingers over his skin and press my mouth into his shoulder; I can’t douse my urge to devour him. He places his hand on the back of my head and kisses my forehead. I move the length of my body against his and feel waves of energy, warmth, love, pulse through my body.
I have this now. I have what I wanted so desperately a year ago.
I feel loved and wanted.
This is my refrain. Love. Worth. Belonging.
Does it take a drought to cultivate an appreciation for water?
“Somehow, you know exactly how to touch me,” I tell him.
“You’ve taught me how,” he replies.