“They say a good love is one that sits you down, gives you a drink of water, and pats you on top of the head. But I say a good love is one that casts you into the wind, sets you ablaze, makes you burn through the skies and ignite the night like a phoenix; the kind that cuts you loose like a wildfire and you can’t stop running simply because you keep on burning everything that you touch! I say that’s a good love; one that burns and flies, and you run with it!” —C. JoyBell C.
How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
Afterward, I want you
harder, and in different ways,
and until you’re empty…
and even then, I want you,
I need you in a harsh way
to find the screaming in me
and crush it if you can,
crush it with your hands and
swallow it, so I can sleep,
so I can touch you innocently,
without aching to be opened…
at least for a while, at least
to let you rest.
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a
helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
—Walt Whitman, from “I Sing the Body Electric” in Walt Whitman: The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics, 1986)
There are many days I miss the touch of another human being. Just the heat of a similar body temperature.
Such a simple thing to take for granted. To have never felt a lover’s hands would be less torturous than aching in their absence.