Whose hand will pull you through the crowd?
Love is a weathered coin.
The comfort and security of your body; your receptiveness, your love.
The distrust and fear of your body; others' desires, your betrayal.
It is surely over-simplistic to say that a person who loves another person would never betray them. How do you recover? Left starving for the sense of connection - for you to mollify, instead of distress.
If I could introduce you to that year again, I would.
Introduce you to my life; drape you in the matters of me, and those around me. An expansion of my feelings - you would be. I question, how far you might have gone; would you have tore me apart? Reciprocated the way you were treated, to my increasingly brittle heart. Or have continued to complete me. 'It's just the nearness of you'; your scent, your touch, and I knew I had found what I had sought so terribly to locate within the insuperable vastness of this planet.
Although our conditions are ever-critical and metamorphosed, I would happily propose in the slightest regions of my mind. A dinner party and the age of 40; complete, sipping slowly from flutes of accomplishment, with the intermittent twinkle of the past, and future, combined. Ella Fitzgerland and Louis Armstrong describing only us, on a loop, the repetition we grew accustomed to. My belief is firm: the night would contain no end.
Sometimes it feels as though I am entirely lost.
My expectation persists; to see your hand, reach out for me from within the crowd of nobodies, and tell me that I am somebody, and smile.
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