Touch. Warmth. It’s often sensual. You can’t get enough of the way he hugs you, crushes you… ignoring the buddy hug… the one where you’re politely patted on the back. Her finger tips will trail lazily over your hand, occasionally drifting up your forearm in a whisper soft caress.
You relish his scent.
You’ll never forget the way she tastes.
You both relish a lingering gaze. Can’t get enough of the way she fucks you with her eyes; the way he tangles his fingers in your hair when it’s nearly too much, pulling it, forcing you to keep eye contact.
Anything that may have been lost in non-verbal translation can become music to our minds… our bodies…. all of us. Blending, needing, seeking… We get high on intimacy, crave it, one another. Prose becomes unintelligible. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need prose or eloquence or anything beyond whispered breaths, the score of fingernails or teeth, the influence of their scent, their flesh… Show, don’t tell. Your golden rule. Who says you suck at communication?
And then they’re gone.
You understand. Really. Or at least in theory… Parent(s). Current lover(s). Past lovers. Best friend(s). Pets. It happens to all of us eventually. We run from it. Hide for a while. Push harder. Run faster. Still we know how the story has to end.
It’s the nothingness we can’t fathom. Fiery depths to scare us into being a better person. Celestial adventures, wings whisper soft and white, a paradise awaits if we please a creator. Faith. Foolishness. Doubt. Perseverance. We need to believe in something because well, let’s face it… if not, what’s the point?
We bury it. It’s this… thing.
The thing we don’t acknowledge.
The thing we don’t accept.
The thing of which we often refuse to speak.
It seeps in to our social schemas, our gender/societal roles. For most, it’s an unconscious reaction. Conversation is polite. Guarded. We value vitality. Perfection. Happiness.
It’s not our fault exactly… years of social conditioning, the desire to fit in, to love and be loved… the fear of failure or rejection, never being enough. It’s why we play Show and (Don’t) Tell.
We have time. I have time. I tell myself this daily. I can do the proposal tomorrow. Send that email I’ve been meaning to send for the last 3 months. I’m not alone. How many times have we thought/heard that there’s always next year for a girls’ weekend… to reconnect… to be more than friends… to be more than we are… to say what we mean.
And that’s that.We’ll keep playing by the rules.
To say I’m here.
I love you.
I’m so sorry.
Take in the perspiration on your neck mixing with the cologne that marks you as his.
Roses and something… the little black and pink bottle containing the scent of her… the one that never fails to get you off.
Something whisper soft, the newness of the life you made.
Choking down the repugnant.
Savoring a moment.
Occasionally relish the unexpected.
It’s powerful. Moving. A silent game of mind sex in so many ways. We tell ourselves its enough; perhaps it’s true in many ways. Show, don’t tell. They understand. They know. Have always known.
Yet then it comes time for them to go.
We focus on the regrets. What if? I should have… Why didn’t I? I wonder what… Did he feel… God, was it ever really as complicated as I thought?
Emotions, their vocabulary may feel heavy, foreign on the tongue. Eloquence? Shot to shit. I pushed outside of my comfort zone, my boundaries, thanked him for all he’s done, is doing. I know he will continue to do it all until he literally can’t do anything more. I will thank her for being my best friend, my biggest advocate, make sure she knows she is my biggest role model. I can thank O. for her constant and unwavering support… Other J. for being one of my biggest inspirations… A for persisting, pushing beyond my reserved nature. M. for more than I can convey in a 12 word sentence.
Reach for their hand.
Breathe them in.
Commit their scent to memory.
Find comfort in that inhale that never fails to almost, almost make us believe they’re there.
Naked and vulnerable.
With you mouth.
With your mind.
With your body.