A Good Day

“Today was a good day, wasn’t it?”

Yeah. Would it be cliche to draw comparison to heaven, to euphoria, to escape? Or would that be too privileged of an answer to give?

“Fuck political correctness and tell me how you feel.”

It was heaven. Euphoria. Escape. Blankets aren’t as warm without your body heat and sleep isn’t as resting unless I can feel your breath tickling my ear. Your arms are like the ribbon tying me together. Does that make me a present?

“I mean…”

Okay. Let’s settle for special.

“You are special.”

Special is a funny word. Your tone implies a euphemism, a disguise, snark I don’t understand. Perhaps my own insecurity acts as a megaphone, altering your voice onto a loud, invasive creature licking my neck.


Right? But I trust you. I trust you more than to think you mean it to be absolutely hilarious. I trust you to make such jabs at my insecurities, to make me laugh and forget about them all together. Am I special? Who cares!

Image result for hands gif

“Yeah! Fight the power!”

You are the power. I fight you the way a shadow fights with light. It’s a play fight, a game of hide and seek. I hide in plain sight because I want you to find me, to catch me, to tickle me until I’m breathless. I’m breathless around you. When we first met did you go to bed and think of me, like I did you? Was there a shiver hiking up your spine, slowly, debilitatingly, devastatingly, gorgeously? Hey, gorgeous.


Did you miss me on New Years Eve, glittering in low light, surrounded by people with a part of you missing? I felt like I had forgotten something at home, I felt the frustration of remembering what I need but not having the time to go and fetch it. Did you feel it too?

“…Well -“

Do you feel the chill of a lacking presence, a shadow without light, a misty outline on a grey wall playing out a loop of our time together tangled in the morning rays? The sensation of fingertips, dragging through the dust on the bookshelf, topped with books archiving our time together, stories and epics and hollow poetry… mythology lives on in the memory of popular culture, but don’t you think that our vinyl records will croon on into space when the world is obliterated, living on forever in oblivion?

“I guess I -“

Do you knit together a timeline of all our milestones, stitched together with the same heart strings I asked you to stitch me up with? Do you see my face and feel something hot bloom in the space between your ribs, snaking up your sternum and spilling into your heart? Do you feel it pollute your blood, turning from red to the gold of ichor?

“Listen -“

And the anxiety. The nervousness. When you sit beside me, I don’t even need to be touching you to feel every inch of you, living, breathing, being. I feel the same head-pounding of a novel crush, the foreign anomaly of attachment to someone of water, unblooded. I – ; what is it?

“Listen. I don’t feel any of those things. You feel so spectacularly, you explode with everything at once, and I can’t relate. I don’t feel as you do. I don’t articulate it, either.”


But. No buts. I don’t feel as you do. When I look at you, when I touch you, when you leave, I don’t feel the varied fireworks of emotions that you describe. I feel comfortable. I feel whole without you. It doesn’t bother me when you leave.”

…I trust you enough to know you’re going somewhere with this.

“You trust me. Well, I feel you. You’re not a shadow I need to catch because you aren’t just attached to me by the toes, you are a layer in my cosmic being. When I pray to God on my knees, I pray for the space inside of me that you take up. When you’re not in sight I don’t feel alarm, I don’t feel a gaping hole. That space you take up, the one next to my sternum and stitched up with the heart strings I borrowed from you, is always full. It’s full of you. I’m full of you. And I trust you, too. I trust you to always come back to me.”

You trust me.

“I trust you.”

Well. I suppose… it really is a good day, my love. Today is a good day.

“Is it heaven, euphoria, escape?”

More than that. It is earthly, it’s content.

It is home.


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