A Valentines day fluff-explosion I wrote in an attempt to prove that not ALL my characters are deranged, and that not ALL my stories end in death.
It's raining outside. I can see it hitting the glass. I point out the patterns that it makes, trying to let you into my mind. Your head falls onto my shoulder, and I feel you exhale all of yourself in the attempt to spend a moment as me.
How did we ever get to this? From wanting to know about one another to trying to become one another, for that single, thrilling moment when we momentarily understand who the other one is? We both do it. Search through the other, looking for something that we haven't yet discovered. That's why I like to play with your hair.
Your hair is shorter than mine, thicker and darker and much nicer smelling. I run my hands through it at every opportunity, sure that someday, I'll know every one of the strands. The parts of you that I don't understand are the ones that I am the craziest about, because there is nothing that I could completely get that would make you you. That's how mysterious you are to me. That's how deeply I yearn to show you that I recognize you. Does that make sense?
It fascinates me. You are the same person today that you will be tomorrow. You will be the same person tomorrow that you will be the day after. Years in the future, you will still be yourself, and I will get to watch. How did that ever happen?
We all long for simplicity. We all want something pure. That's the only thing that scares me, the wanting. Can someone both want and have? Is all happiness found in chasing after what we think will complete us? I feel the answer every time I find myself missing you. You are right before me; if I can miss you in your presence, I can have you while I wish I could have you.
I don't know how to speak it. This is what you do to me. You steal my words away. Words have always been my one weapon, my one way of reminding the world that I was worth all the resources that made me--my father's sperm, my mother's egg, the nine months of inconvenience, the food and water and artificial heat. I had my words to defend myself. It's how I kept myself validated. But when I'm near you, it stops being about the words.
The rain's falling harder now. I can feel your hands searching my body, the same way my hands are searching your hair. We're looking for the same thing, I expect.
I have a game. It's a game to remind me of the wonderment to be found in the universe. Here's how it goes; first off, you find yourself. That's one of the hardest parts, though it becomes easier when I'm near you. You reach out, weeding through all the rest of the world until you discover your own self, and then you grab hold and root down. Now we have a center. Once that center is found, you can start to break free of it. You send out your feelers, stretching them as far as they can go, and once they become too short, you reach the next part of the game. Bear with me. You have to send yourself over the edge of your mind. You have to be able to hurl yourself out of your being, until you don't know where you are anymore. And then, once you're nice and relaxed about being clueless and lost, you pick the right moment and repeat this one line to yourself;
"I don't know where it ends."
If you do this correctly, you're mind will back flip. It will curl over, trying to reorient, and you'll have one tiny, tiny moment when your mind is so busy that you are free of its influences, and are permitted to simply feel.
This is what it is to love you.
Music was made for this purpose. Poetry tried, but it wasn't quite universal enough. Words are the devils of convenience, and emotion isn't convenient. Music isn't convenient either, and so music works the best. It's the way of saying what we can't way. I haven't a clue what the lyrics to Bob Dylan's "I Want You" are, but I still know that that song is true. I want to be able to share a look with you and let you feel all I am feeling. Every time I sit down with a pen and paper, I feel a certain way, and I have no clue whether the feeling can possibly be replicated. I try, but I think it comes closer through the music. So ease back. Listen to someone else's words, for they knew best. Maybe a note from her and a look from me will be enough to make this all make some sort of sense.
Can I just say this and have it be enough? I'm trained to believe that more words equals a greater level of clarity, but maybe that's not so. It's a tough habit to break. I have to start somewhere. I have to learn how to just state something, and trust that the beauty will be found without my help.
I love you.
The sky outside is darkening with the storm. The splatters on the window make shadows on your face, and I trace each one with the side of my finger. You open your mouth just wide enough to warm my thumb with your lips. You move slowly and calmly, your beauty exhausting.
I miss you even though you are here. I wish I could have you even though I can.
I kiss your hair off of your forehead, trying to memorize the feel of your licorice mop against my lips.
You sigh, and my mind does a back flip.
