memorization
i feel like a schmuck. like i suffered a love stroke. like i was overtaken by a flash of lightening and didn't get to see anything, just left with an overwhelming sense of awe. i hate questioning feeling. i told myself i wouldn't i use that word so liberally. But I did. I used it and it felt fine. And we looked at each other - made eye contact rather - and there was no sense of hesitance or distrust or an understanding of a word being dropped. there was the first time. but then a few weeks later, there was none. there was reciprocation. There was her saying ‘I love you, too” in all her sweet repressed southern drawl clashed with so much (there can never be too much) Russian on the brain. I’ve opened my body and fears to her before any theory. I’m just as unsure as she is about how I think and function and vice versa and I love that. I feel I’ve learned so much about her where in the past I would have said I know nothing. We talk intimately, but openly and honestly without pretense or difficulty. There is no fight in sharing our most hidden desires, and there is little hesitance in satisfying desires. Even those which I am presently hesitant towards I dream about. I dream about fulfilling her desires. I dream about being engulfed in her elemental torrent of spirit. I imagine the Holy Ghost spreading through her body.
And I’m such a dork because I love her love of Russian and I love her jealousy. I love that she cares with her nails and fists, but can just as easily cry. I love that her pain can hurt me. I love that her need makes me need her more. I am dependent on her for release from my body, but the key is something buried deep inside me, only the contours of which are visible in the overgrown weeds of my amygdala.
slightly less important: her birthday will be our hypothetical 6 month anniversary. she will be in st. petersburg. i will have just returned from morocco.
i could drive to see her tonight. but i can't.
i'm not afraid of spontaneity, but i savor the time it takes fruit to ripen, so though my baser self has ripped from my body and stolen the car, i am sitting here and thinking of the carnations of her flesh.
And I’m such a dork because I love her love of Russian and I love her jealousy. I love that she cares with her nails and fists, but can just as easily cry. I love that her pain can hurt me. I love that her need makes me need her more. I am dependent on her for release from my body, but the key is something buried deep inside me, only the contours of which are visible in the overgrown weeds of my amygdala.
slightly less important: her birthday will be our hypothetical 6 month anniversary. she will be in st. petersburg. i will have just returned from morocco.
i could drive to see her tonight. but i can't.
i'm not afraid of spontaneity, but i savor the time it takes fruit to ripen, so though my baser self has ripped from my body and stolen the car, i am sitting here and thinking of the carnations of her flesh.