Here I am

Here I am, beside her finally. Alone in my boudoir, finally hidden from the eyes. Here, there is no time; we are not bound. Here in my room there are roses which I hope she was able to smell, a music playlist I want her to hear, a massage I want her to feel, tea that I want her to taste, and a love that I want her to see. Ironic, that despite all of that, all of the sleep lost preparing this festival of the senses, it is in fact my senses that are firing. She is in remission from the night before.

Here I am, on top of her with my hands pressed against her. Hoping they could fix all of her pain and knowing that they can't. Hoping that they can offer her an escape from the pain and knowing that they can. They knead and they fold and they rub to warm and press to relax. Unsure if I have the algorithm for success, but trying all the same. At last, a gentle moan. The quietest motivation I've ever had to keep going. Keep trying to get closer, to let her sense your love. Today, however, with her quiet acquiescence and loud hesitancy, she has only opted for 25 minutes of devotion. But I shall return, for I know there is more she wishes to say without words.

Here I am, beside her finally. Laying ever still with my eyes covered. They speak too loudly and too soon for her. So I allow my lips to catch up while my eyes and the rest of me cool down. They tell her something she already knows. She doesn't need alerts and reminders, she needs rest. Thankfully her comfort is always on my agenda. So we lay. Her hand is already available for me. At last, I touch her ring finger with my index, as if to point to marriage. Her fingers extend and fold over mine, killing my fears as a venus fly trap frees its victim from eternal hunger. I am satisfied with her hand as she lays asleep. I nestle my head closer to her fingers and offer them a kiss. As my eyes dim to the rest of the room, her black nail polish shines with a small sliver of brightness, like the moon among the endless night sky. I am at rest. She is not, fidgety sleeper as she is, she moves her feet between my legs for the warmth of my body. I ask if she wishes for the covers and she denies it; she wants warmth. She turns about face and nestles her body close to mine. We are laying as 1 now. My body pressed against hers. My hands have access to her body as she sleeps, but my hands wish to take nothing that she wouldn't offer up when she was awake. They move, as before, along her torso, towards her fingers, in her hair. My face also now in her hair. Her hair strands filter the stink of the outside world where we are not yet together. When I breathe in air with my nose tucked into her hair I feel as though for the first time I have smelled oxygen. I've become intoxicated. I must move. She nustles a little bit closer to me and now my lips are pressed against the rear of her shoulder blade, which is when I open my eyes.

Here I am, peering along the far end of her shoulder blade with my eyes, as I make my way along her back with my lips. Gently, much more softly than a kiss, much more firmly than an accident, my lips make my way forward. As I peer up I realize that while her closeness has made parts of me much larger, the circumstances have made me much smaller. The small lamp in my room casts a refraction of light against her shoulder which looks as though the sun is rising against the desert sands, and I am a mere thirsty prophet, crying to cross it, my lips against the sand, thirsting for fresh juices. My eyes making contact with the image of a dark fading cherry tree, standing in the desert alone. With an energy I've never felt before I make my way towards the fruit, lip by lip, towards this oasis. But, as with any mirage, despair follows. She wakes up and says, "What time is it?"

Here I am, back to a world of time, we are once again bound. The flowers, the music, the massage oils, the tea, the painting, will all have to stay in my room this weekend. We'll have to find a way to transport them 1 by 1. Perhaps these flowers will have to stay with me forever in fact, there is no good way for me to bring them to her without risking their premature death, either in her car trunk or in her house. I will have to offer her a second chance to smell my love in the spring. It was a bit early for flowers. The tea, not her favourite. To be honest, not mine either, but it stimulates bloodflow. The playlist, good for the moment only, I still love every song on it, but I'm only in the mood to appreciate it when she's here. The massage, finished; I ought to get a bed higher off the ground if I am to really cure her with my hands. After all is said and done, now that we are back within the realm of time, she can only see my love. The painting, and my eyes, were always hers. We've planned for the rest of the day for her to see my past, so she can see exactly what roads I had to travel to get to her, and today she's willing to walk a few of those roads together with me. Thank god for the sunlight and the endless blue sky, despite the cold weather that still looms around her and I. I am looking forward to the spring.

Here I am, looking forward to the spring.