“It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.” ~ Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility.
Have I misread our late evening walks with my hand in yours?
Have I put more than I should have into your kisses, your lips on my collarbone?
I’m not new to romance nor am I nakedly naïve. And yet, I’m beginning to question what you mean by forever with me.
Because your words speak of a life with me but you keep me estranged from what makes you real.
It’s the little things I’ve noticed that before I would have been blind to.
Like when we make love. I’m bare to you in body, but rarely in my soul. You are expert at taking off my clothes but my honesty makes you quiet and withdrawn.
I don’t want to convince myself of something that we don’t have. Well, actually, I do, but I know better than to go there.
We are often like the ocean and the shore; meeting yet retreating, never fully embracing the fullness of the intimacy I crave.
I receive your flowers that come without fail to my door, always wondering if this ritual is something that one day I will grow to hate.
Bring me a daisy that you’ve plucked from the side of the road, whisper your secrets in my ear. Smile your wickedness with intent, I wish to feel the warmth of your skin. It’s not anything you’ve done that hurts, it’s that I’m fighting to fall into a depth of you that you never reveal.