need

It’s a constant, the absence. No matter which one I’m in bed with, I’m aware that the other isn’t there. I close my eyes to brown ones, wake up to blue, it doesn’t matter. I’m conscious of it.

Complimentary, and different. One is like gravity, always there, always pulling. Needs me, and isn’t afraid to make it clear. Tells me so, asks after me, puts me on a pedestal. Holds me up and says I’m perfect. (I’m not. I’m flawed. We’ll get to that eventually, sometime when I’m ready to dig into the dark night of my soul.)

The other seems like he could leave me behind. Maybe that’s the appeal. That as I am aware of the distance, I know it closes by choice, not habit or addiction. I wonder if it’ll ever be bridged. I wonder if he holds me at arms length to keep from getting hurt by the fact that there are two of them.

I won’t tell either, but I need them both. I need the reflection of myself as perfect, flawless, sparkling like a diamond in the sun. And I need the space, the freedom, the impossible single moments of romance, tumbled up in silence, broken apart by laughter as we both flinch from intimacy. I’m addicted to the conspiratorial whispers and the praising tones.

Everything is found in the cracks in between.

four

Both hands. A leg. My cheek on your shoulder. Four points of contact. It seems like a record, a milestone I should mark. I’ve stopped announcing when we reach them, but I notice. Still. I noticed each touch, each tiny fingertip graze.

I close my eyes and relish them. Think about how you smell. How kissing you is soft and sweet and a little awkward. Not practiced and perfect. How my lipgloss sticks our lips together a little, and I don’t want to pull away enough to break the surface tension.

I count as the number of points of contact goes up, hoping eventually I’ll count them down again.

To one.

tension

I’m aware of you there in the bed. Less than a foot away, but it seems like a mile, and I reach across it slowly, unsure of what I’ll find. I laugh, I tease, I talk to chase away the silence…all the time aware of the ice I’m walking on, and hoping I don’t fall through it to the deep ocean underneath.

I’m not ready. I’m thinking things about you that I shouldn’t, and I’m not ready. I want to hold you, I want to know what your skin tastes like, I want to feel if it gives gently under my teeth. But I’m not ready. Neither are you, I think.

So I lay there, listening as your breathing evens out. Chewing my lip sullenly and keeping my hands to myself. Thinking that you smell good, that your fingertips were slightly cool when they touched the space between my shoulder blades. That the sunlight sparkled through your eyes.

And I keep it to myself, that the butterflies in my stomach must be the sign of post-modern love.