Monday, November 05, 2012

He is real.

But he is real.

He is unexpected reactions and opinions and actions.
That silence and burst of laughter at my antics.
He is arms around me when I am cold or sad or happy or lonely.
That silly man crawling up my stairs and singing horrible songs and dancing and getting excited like a toddler and getting distracted and randomly calling me beautiful.
And he, like, makes things better when I was sure I didn't need anyone to make things better.

And I was a tower of strength who resolutely didn't need anyone. An isolated tower of strength. And then he held me when I cried instead of calling me ridiculous or looking awkward or making me feel this [] small.

And, like, I didn't know I had a "kiss me" face until I met him and he knows exactly what that face looks like and sometimes he's silly and comes this [] close and doesn't kiss me and it makes me laugh.

Sometimes I forget for hours at a time that I'm supposed to be trying to be easy to get along with and fun to be around because I'm just comfortable with him.

And he is real.

He is the heavy sound of breathing and the rise and fall of his chest in the night.
That hand that fits so perfectly with mine and the way it feels when his those hands are in my hair and on my face. . .

He is a new best friend. I can tell him anything. I can ask him anything. Even when I don't really want to and my hands start to shake with the nervousness of it and my face starts twitching and there I am crying at the other end of the couch like someone just punched me, stuttering and snotting and he listens like I'm actually composed and articulate. He's like that.

He is laughter and engaging conversation and a partner in adventures and comfortable quiet moments and whispers in the dark.

Sometimes I worry about imaginary futures and stress about things 15 steps ahead of time and plan possible reactions to 75 situations and wall off parts of myself so I can survive a cataclysm.

But he is real.

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