gadarene
“for there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.”
I am manifesting the way of the writer.
I’ve attracted someone who cares for language as much as I do.
A soul who speaks love through words of affirmation.
This morning, we shared a bit of intimacy in letters.
I sent him the scenery I considered in bed.
A white linen dress. Warm hands. Kisses on a clavicle. The map of desire from cheekbone to lip. The sanguine architecture where soft meets hard.
His long dark hair is like tousled bedsheets.
Do you want to swallow someone to save the sweetness? I do it to feel closer to the other, though my heart knows the only way through intimacy is pain. I crave the rupture and tap around the edges lightly. I cannot manipulate an expectance to bring us closer together. It will come, or it won’t. I speak excitement and offer myself in the light in place of suffering.
He likes looking at me.
I like running my fingertips over the acromion, that little bone that pokes out at the tip of his shoulder.
When he departs, I sparkle with tears. When I cry, it is for the centuries of splitting beloveds. They are mine, and they are not mine.
My heart shudders though I know it was always meant to be this way.
I needed someone to write to, to blush romance with my words.
Dakota, this is for you.
Photo source.
