I want to suspend this sweet, hard life.
I want to go back.
I want to time travel with you.
I want to see your face for the first time, the years of knowing spun away. I want to watch as we circle each other, hesitant and curious, until that night when we sit on stools and catch the flickers of light in each other’s eyes, and everything changes.
I want to watch as we catch them in our smooth hands where they glimmer and spark.
I want to re-wonder when you will lean towards me for the first time, or if I will lean towards you, the air between us hovering like hot clouds. And then I want to feel the atmosphere rumble and burn as we push through those clouds, until there is no space between us at all.
I want to relearn the smell of your skin.
I want to feel the flutter of my open heart at the thought of you, the warm river rush in my belly.
I want to know nothing about you, and then something. I want to piece you together slowly, and watch you rearrange as days tumble by.
I want to not yet know your most fragile corners.
I want to be stunned by your strong spots.
I want to greet you at the end of the day, your face still a surprise. I want to daydream of the life we will sew together, and run my fingertips over each imagined stitch, silky and solid.
I want to feel the spaciousness of time, our days unfilled, our nights long, violet and unbroken. I want to lean against the orange walls of the first house where we lived, the small house that felt big.
I want to whisper who do you think our babies will look like? and then hurtle towards them.
And then, I want to hold our exhales as we swim forward. I want to watch the years fly and fly, a time-lapse sunset.
I want to see these full, gorgeous days with open eyes, a patient mind, a sated heart.
I want to feel the heft of our life in my lungs, and I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you.
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Author: Lynn Shattuck
Editor: Renée Picard
Image: Robert Huffstutter/Flickr Creative Commons