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My heart is spontaneous.
Aug. 14th, 2003 01:51 amAt about 10:20pm, I reached my hand back and grabbed hers, holding it softly while we read respective screens. At 10:30, I was still reading LJ when I felt her head beside mine. She was standing behind me, lips gingerly grazing my ear. She whispered hot breath on my face, "Come lay down with me." For a fraction of a minute, I thought about how I hadn't finished reading. She stepped back, allowing me my decision. I followed, of course. I am so grateful that I did.
In the dark of the bedroom, the fan's air kissed our silhouetted skin. We rolled around, settling in, desiring comfort. I fell into place behind her, my form echoing hers. We talked, hushed voices and intimate secrets. My sweet confidante cradled my confessions - fears spoken and not.
Our talk turned to ceremonies and rituals - a recurrence of late. I told her my heart is more spontaneous than that - that sometime I would be ready to proceed without crippling fear of failure. I would be ready, and I would tell her, and the deed would be done. To me. I don't need proclamations and public announcements. My heart speaks its own mind and keeps its own promises.
I tell her, and we talk. We talk finger sizes and gifts. We talk meanings. She tells me her left ring finger is half a size larger than her right. I ask her why I need to know both. She says, "It depends on the meaning." What could depend? What meaning? She says there is a difference between a gift of love and a gift of promise. I say, "If I want to buy you a gift because I love you, I will buy you a toy, or a book, or a flower. I will present you with a kiss. All my gifts are gifts of love."
She tells me quietly that she would accept my promise, and that she hoped that I would accept hers, if given. My ridiculously practical nature wonders aloud if we should plan, then, this exchange of promises. If we should plan together, in order to gift together. To match. To complement. She asks, "What happened to being spontaneous?"
My love, our hearts are as spontaneous as our words, as your lips on my earlobe, your breath on my skin. If nothing should ever come from this night's talk, skin on skin, I am content with spoken words. Words and spontaneity.
In the dark of the bedroom, the fan's air kissed our silhouetted skin. We rolled around, settling in, desiring comfort. I fell into place behind her, my form echoing hers. We talked, hushed voices and intimate secrets. My sweet confidante cradled my confessions - fears spoken and not.
Our talk turned to ceremonies and rituals - a recurrence of late. I told her my heart is more spontaneous than that - that sometime I would be ready to proceed without crippling fear of failure. I would be ready, and I would tell her, and the deed would be done. To me. I don't need proclamations and public announcements. My heart speaks its own mind and keeps its own promises.
I tell her, and we talk. We talk finger sizes and gifts. We talk meanings. She tells me her left ring finger is half a size larger than her right. I ask her why I need to know both. She says, "It depends on the meaning." What could depend? What meaning? She says there is a difference between a gift of love and a gift of promise. I say, "If I want to buy you a gift because I love you, I will buy you a toy, or a book, or a flower. I will present you with a kiss. All my gifts are gifts of love."
She tells me quietly that she would accept my promise, and that she hoped that I would accept hers, if given. My ridiculously practical nature wonders aloud if we should plan, then, this exchange of promises. If we should plan together, in order to gift together. To match. To complement. She asks, "What happened to being spontaneous?"
My love, our hearts are as spontaneous as our words, as your lips on my earlobe, your breath on my skin. If nothing should ever come from this night's talk, skin on skin, I am content with spoken words. Words and spontaneity.
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