You don’t complete me. You don’t fill up the aching spaces inside that are sometimes lost and empty—but you make me feel more whole.
When I’m curled up close next to you, I feel more myself. I feel more fiery. More outspoken. More tender. More in touch with the softness, the sensitivity, the roarin’ feminine goddess gentleness that courses through my veins.
You don’t complete me, but you make me feel more luscious, like a plush dahlia expanding outward from the emerald stem, petal by velvety bright pink petal.
When I close my eyes and press my lips fiercely to yours, I feel exactly like who I’ve always been, underneath the peeling-back layers of all the exhausted masks I’ve worn.
Darlin’, when you touch my skin, my soul oozes out. When you look at me, I speak through unedited heart.
You don’t complete me. You aren’t my missing piece or my other half.
You are so much more than that.
You’re unspoken magic. You’re a precious evergreen-scented reminder to savor this breath, to fully inhabit my life.
And I am deliciously whole on my own, that’s for f*cking sure. But there’s something gut-wrenchingly magnetic, something wildly nourishing about the combination of you and me—the threads of our hearts sewing slowly together, our breaths synced up in real time. Your inhale, my exhale, stoking the hungry fire of previously hidden inner sparks, peeling away every damn thing that isn’t real.
In the purity of your presence, darlin’—I feel more vivid. I feel more alive. More painted to juicy, technicolor life. Our love doesn’t threaten my independence or power at all, oh no—it adds to it. It adds to my voice. My growth. My strength. My spicy confidence.
I don’t have to dull myself down or change who I am for you to love me.
And you don’t have to dull yourself down or change who you are for me to love you.
What a deliciously radical notion it is.
It’s love—based on the nakedness of heart-steeped authenticity. It’s love—without the holding back bullsh*t and polite tip-toeing agony.
It’s love—pure, plain and simple. It’s thousands of miles ocean deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.
You don’t complete me, but you inspire me. You enliven me. You add such intense richness to my days.
Darlin’, you are like the brightest shade of tropical turquoise that adds a welcome pop of color to the messy canvas I’ve been painting alone, for years. Now, we paint joyously—and often, wildly—together. We color way outside the lines, that’s for damn sure.
Your soul swirls with mine, your heart dances with the utter electricity of mine and together—oh yes, together—we paint with naked, twisted tangled limbs and eager hands. We paint with the gentle brushstrokes of our deepest hopes and the tingly dreams we abandoned long ago.
You don’t complete me, but you ignite places inside me I thought were dead.
Oh yes—you breathe new life into the oxygen-starved parts of me I once thought I had to hide and suffocate.
You kiss me—you kiss me like you really f*cking mean it—you kiss me like you could die five minutes from now, and every single one of my cells lights up like the sun at noon. I smile like I’ve got stars in my mouth.
I finally feel like I can breathe again.
And we merge.
We melt, smiles and fears drizzling like caramel into each other’s arms.
Two wholes, becoming even more whole, together.
Digging deeper, together.
Facing our sh*t, together.
Growing, expanding and savoring moments like ripe raspberries, together.
Blooming our hearts wide open to trust life, together.
We hold hands, take a deep breath, smile nervously, and go to the tender places inside we both never wanted anyone else to see.
We heal. We play. We journey. We laugh. We explore. We love.
Two wholes, become even more whole, just by breathing and being next to each other.
You don’t complete me, but you love me. And I don’t complete you, but I love you.
That’s so much more than enough—it’s more than I thought I ever deserved. I savor it, every time I’m with you.
When I’m curled up next to you, my head on your chest, your hands stroking my hair—
I feel exactly like myself.
Thank you for showing me it’s safe to be me. The real me.
It’s something I forgot how to do long ago, it’s something you silently remind me of every time your fingertips find their way back to the soft skin on the tops of my shoulders.
I hope I return the favor, I hope I show you, every damn time I look at you, that it’s not only safe—but it’s wildly, ridiculously magnificent—to be you.
The real you.
Author: Sarah Harvey
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Photo: Flickr/Michelle B.