Yours

I wake you up. We’ve been fighting. Or, as close to it as we ever come. I’m almost mad at you. Probably because everything you say cuts me to the core and there are no hands in hair or tender looks to soften the blow. I feel like damaged goods. You keep saying how you want me anyway and I keep getting caught on the “anyway”. The despite. As if I am a problem to be solved or a work in progress. An investment. You are betting on me and what if I end up disappointing? What if this is as good as it gets. I’m the manhandled fruit. I’m a mess of daddy issues and fear. Fear of commitment. Fear of losing. Fear of letting go. I keep catching myself one foot out the door. I don’t gamble. The slightest risk of loss seems too much. I don’t let myself think about the payoff. Yet, here I am. About to go all in and lay my cards on the table.

Your voice is dry crumbling mud. That bit of earth I carry with me through the city while pavement stomping. You keep me grounded. You keep me sane. You are end of summer nights in the moment that the wind begins to change. You are the breeze that prompts a sweater. The shrugging down into wool. A bonfire and ash in my hair and on my skin. You are bare feet in cold sand. A lingering look over my shoulder. The last bitter goodbye.

I frustrate you. I know I frustrate you. Sometimes I mean to. Most times I am just trying not to get hurt. We push each other. Back to back, force on force, tension-filled and then simultaneously slackened we slide to the floor. Still touching. I would give anything to hold your hand against the tile. I would give anything to lay my head on your shoulder. Quiet these murmuring voices for awhile.

Technology brought us together but keeps us disjointed and apart while you wait for me to speak… when my eyes would say it all. I click the phone off. Would that I could lay my head against your chest instead. The hurt follows the emptying of words. The grasping for communication. I am processing and you are left hanging. Would that I could climb into your lap; straddle your thighs; hold your face lightly in these palms; bite softly on your lip. Forget talking; let us abandon our words for a night. Share a conversation in moans, instead. A sudden intake of air. A helpless groan. Find what we are searching  for—here—between the lines.

You need more than a pronoun; I need more than a promise. We need each other in an airport. Nervous to touch and break the spell. Pounding hearts and sweating palms. We need each other under palm trees, windows down, hot wind in our hair. Stealing sideways glances. We need September.

You. Oh, you. You want reassurance. You want commitment. You want me to yourself. You want me whole or broken or in repair. You want me now or someday or however you can get me. You want. You want me. Would that you could know this:

I’m already yours.

Desperately, crazily, exasperatingly yours. While yelling, while falling silent, while holding back, while giving in. Yours. When saying the opposite, when slamming your hand in the door, when refusing to be pushed. Yours. Stubborn, angry, offended, indignant. Yours.

Vulnerable and sweet. Late at night typing while you sleep.

Immer noch, immer mehr, immer weider, und immer nur du.

Yours.

Florence and the Machine – You’ve Got The Love

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