It starts with words, I read him before I know him. We make love in euphemisms and humour (always his) and form a fantasy void of reason. Nervous laughter aptly expressed in emojis and incoherent speech, I ask him if he ever makes himself laugh this hard. I bid adieu to reason, I want him to touch me the way he writes.
“I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.”– Azra.T
It happens so fast. One minute I am filled with resentment, I swear he will never touch me again. The next I am filled with fear, I am drowning and I need to hold onto something familiar. I am drenched in a longing I keep mistaking for love and he is drenched in certainty. He knows what hand will trace my spine to open me up. And I fight it, Lord knows I do. But the universe is my religion, and it keeps drawing me back to him. Hello turns into a kiss, unresolved feelings swept under a rug. Maybe this time he’ll stay.