Dear reticent lover,

I know what you want.

You want an absolute. To know that I, that this, us, won’t hurt you. That your wounded heart can rest easy and heal here.

You want to know that there is no risk of further damage.

I can’t give you that—an absolute.

No one can.

I want to. I want to rest your weary head on my chest, to slide my fingers over your soft eyelids. Your heart is frightened, beating slowly, softly, reticently. You want to place it in glass atop a pedestal where no one can disturb it. I can’t let you do that because I love you.

I need your heart here, with me.

Here where we are open and exposed to the elements: to a warm, soft breeze and to harsh cold winds.

They all will come, like seasons.

Your heart will be warmed by the sunlit summer mornings and broken, again, by cold lonely winter nights. And it will heal as the sun rises: again and again and again.

The heart is sensitive but it is not fragile. It is brilliant and resilient. Like you.

And now, the sun rises while the air is still and welcoming and content. Your heart is beating slowly in my soft hands. And in this moment—not the moment before, and perhaps not the moment after, but here, now, you are safe, you are loved, you can release your breath completely and without reticence.

You can rest easy next to me, as the day unfolds and we begin.

~ Today

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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: The Aftershock at Flickr