She does this thing, when she arrives.
When she walks towards me, her face does something. The usual confidence holds the door open for a kind of shyness that absolutely destroys me, in the best possible way.
Delicious contradiction in one so reliable.
Everything changes. Light. Sound. Even gravity, I swear, eases up.
It’s like time stands still, or finally, finally starts.
Her arms are raising for a hug before we’re nearly close enough together.
I quicken my pace.
She does this thing, when she stays.
I know how she feels.
And I know how she feels.
A natural little spoon, willing to grow her responsibilities from time to time.
I’ve felt appreciated before, but not like this. Not really like this.
She appreciates the act, the reasons and me for doing and thinking them.
And all I can think about is doing more and more.
Just so much more and more.
She kneels on the bed, “just looking.” I forget about my messy hair, sleepy eyes, and couple days of stubble. She’s memorizing. Taking mental pictures to hold her over for a week. You want her to have that.
She makes me feel like she takes me with her wherever she goes.
She does this thing, when she leaves.
Promises she’ll be back. And will be.
But it breaks her perfect heart. Just a little more than she lets on. With words.
Her face, however, is a book I just can’t put down.
And would never want to.
Holding it softly.
Losing ourselves in kissing that makes us feel like we’d never really done it properly before.
But right now.
I already feel missed, and the missing, while still hugging.
The fit is perfection.
The letting go is excruciating.
She leaves me with a smile, lightly chapped lips and boundless excitement thinking about how…
She’ll do this thing when I arrive.