By the smile on my face every time he said hello, every single life force on the universe could tell I was caught. I wanted the tender touch of his manly hand to glide down the right side of my back where traces of his heat can linger. When he squeezed my thigh and then leaned in close to smell the scent of my sweet body wash, his seductiveness never failed to trip up my breathing pattern. It's undeniably true that my heart flipped when he lifted me off the ground in a sweeping warm hug; my bare tippy toes no longer in contact with the hardwood floors. It was in these minimalistic touches that I remember what it's like to feel loved.
As I contemplate on the precious twinklings, the little things that used to fill me, I realize how big the silent spaces are in my life; how empty they feel. So I fill them with God. In moments of solidarity, separate from Him, I yearn to travel backwards to places I can no longer grab for and hold close. My ever present remedy of 'harden-your-heart-ness' works marvelously when things shatter to the ground in pieces so minute it's impossible to repair them. The only thing left to do - sweep up the ruins and discard them into the gigantic receptacle I keep close at all times. In this way, I escape the rapture that is falling over me like a large and heavy black, satin bedsheet. I try to pretend that these memories have not installed themselves in my imagination. But the fact that I am sitting here penning these words from the dark back corners of my consciousness, speaks for me.
Realities versus fantasies. Oh the juxtaposition.