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It's raining outside. And the wind is howling, as if it's some sort of deranged wolf. It makes me think of malapropisms. And the fact that this is a kind of sound malapropism. Confusing the sound of the wind for a werewolf, instead of the sound of words.
But I'm rambling. I can't help it. I'm lying on your chest, unconsciously counting your heartbeats since the moment we became fixated in this position. You with your arm draped across my stomach. Lifeless with the dead of sleep. Me with my arm draped across your stomach. Tense with the liveliness of your presence. Six hundred and ninety five...ninety six...seven. I've been trying to distract myself but this isn't working.
I sniff your shirt, the smell of lavender fabric softener makes me smile. I made fun of you for using it earlier today. It's your favorite v-neck shirt that you've had for three years since seventh grade. It's not as loose fitting anymore. Your arms and chest have filled it out. The fabric is smooth and soft from the countless washes it has undergone. It's funny how that describes almost everything about you. Your favorite shirt. Your voice. The progression of your dimpled smile. The way you move from room to room. The way my name rolls off your pretty pink tongue. They way you just are.
My grandmother would get a kick out of this. She would always say to make sure you didn't fall in love with me. How would she take me being the one that fell for you.
It took me seventeen years, two weeks and three days to come to the much self debated conclusion that I am in love with my best friend since birth. I burrow my face into your chest, blinding myself with the overwhelming smell of lavender at the thought of it. It's hard to think it. I couldn't even begin to imagine myself materializing it into words.
It's been about three months since I've come to my conclusion and it isn't any more bearable to carry these unbelievably heavy feelings.
It isn't any more bearable to be near you like we are now without something fluttering. My heart, my stomach, my mind. This is so familiar to you, lying here in each others arms like a million times before. Like we always do on rainy days. But it's not for me because these new feelings aren't from around here. Try the next neighborhood over. You'll probably find who you're looking for there. Because this is all wrong. These butterflies are in the wrong stomach. These thoughts, the wrong head. This love...The wrong heart.
I look up and your windows are fogged. How ironic. They're fogged, I'm fogged It's all connected.
You stir in your sleep, repositioning yourself so that now I can feel the evaporation of your water vapor against my forehead. My head is bobbing with the movement of your chest. It's like everything is connected creating a symphony of you. Your heartbeat thumping, the rain pounding, your breath breathing, my head moving up and down, up and down.
I look up at your lips, full, another thing that -I can only imagine- is smooth and soft.
One thousand fifteen...I stop breathing trying to get our heartbeats simultaneous. It doesn't work. But I imagine on some for off world...an us.
A you and me unmarred by the complications of previously established relationships, solidified by time. Hearts beating in unison. Lungs breathing in unison.
Your eyes flutter open. Your eyes still bogged down by sleep. Your eyes fall onto my face and your mouth curves into a smile...smooth and soft..."What?" My breath seems to be suspended in air -imagine that- and mentally I grab it while my mind goes on. What?...Everything...What?...I'm bursting like a fourth of july sky with feelings for you...What?...You are my perfection...What?...I love you and you can't see it...What?...How much time have you got?...What?..."Nothing."
Grand Rapids, Michigan
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Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid - Albert Einstein
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"Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes." Oscar Wilde
"The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame."