Between My Bedroom Door and the Couch
If love was a place, you and I took a pretty fantastic trip. Neither
one remembered a passport, or bothered to check tickets for a return
flight. But it ended, as many good things do, and now we're back.
One slightly distracted, rumbling call and I remember naps and drinks and sun-drenched skin, at our place, the place where we loved each other. Slowly sat down between my bedroom door and the couch, using my hardwood floor as an anchor against a swooping tide of longing. A knowing look from my roommate that said, Uh oh, girl and I had to admit, I was a little taken aback.
I didn't count on your blue eyes or slender fingers, or missing your lips, missing your dick, missing those hip bones beneath my teeth. I forgot the way you so casually understand me and accept all the mismatched, neurotic, ambitious parts. Yet knowing this does not make me sad.
Sitting on my floor, longing for you again, looking back at the months together, stories sewn between us, I can smile instead of cry. Because we went there, to this place and laid low for a while. I loved you wildly, and you loved me quietly (although you may argue that you were wild and I quiet instead)
and we brought each other up from the depths as only best friends and lovers can do.
I think about now. The being alone and unshackling my self and rebuilding character and poking my dragon dreams awake from a too long sleep, and look back on your quiet love from the vantage point of my hardwood floor between my bedroom door and the couch. Thinking- until I can love myself as steadily, readily, unequivocally as you did, until I can believe in another man the way I unashamedly believed in the quality of your heart and dreams- I am not ready. I can feel the floor beneath me, my heart pounding in my chest, phone gripped tight from where we said goodbye for the night, see my empty bed, and smile. If I am capable of loving that much once, I will be able to again.
One slightly distracted, rumbling call and I remember naps and drinks and sun-drenched skin, at our place, the place where we loved each other. Slowly sat down between my bedroom door and the couch, using my hardwood floor as an anchor against a swooping tide of longing. A knowing look from my roommate that said, Uh oh, girl and I had to admit, I was a little taken aback.
I didn't count on your blue eyes or slender fingers, or missing your lips, missing your dick, missing those hip bones beneath my teeth. I forgot the way you so casually understand me and accept all the mismatched, neurotic, ambitious parts. Yet knowing this does not make me sad.
Sitting on my floor, longing for you again, looking back at the months together, stories sewn between us, I can smile instead of cry. Because we went there, to this place and laid low for a while. I loved you wildly, and you loved me quietly (although you may argue that you were wild and I quiet instead)
and we brought each other up from the depths as only best friends and lovers can do.
I think about now. The being alone and unshackling my self and rebuilding character and poking my dragon dreams awake from a too long sleep, and look back on your quiet love from the vantage point of my hardwood floor between my bedroom door and the couch. Thinking- until I can love myself as steadily, readily, unequivocally as you did, until I can believe in another man the way I unashamedly believed in the quality of your heart and dreams- I am not ready. I can feel the floor beneath me, my heart pounding in my chest, phone gripped tight from where we said goodbye for the night, see my empty bed, and smile. If I am capable of loving that much once, I will be able to again.
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