Those nights when you’re sitting at the kitchen table with mismatched chairs on either side and it’s dark aside from the green glow of the digital clock on the stove and the flame of the candlestick which has nearly burned down to the end of its wick. When there’s homemade fondue on the table, made from the Belgian cocoa you felt kitchen-chic for picking up in the organic section, and the butts of the #27’s you smoked and the remnants of the out of season strawberries you ate and the juice stained toothpicks you used litter the floor, and you’re staring across at your lover and he’s staring right back, and your energy is the most tangible thing in the room.
When the red wine you splurged on is down to the dregs, and you’re sipping what’s left from each other’s flutes simply because they are each other’s. When Van Morrison is not playing in the background, but the moment would be perfect so you’re probably both singing “Into the Mystic” in your heads, and his foot finds yours under the table and he presses down hard on your toe with his. When he smiles slightly and the flicker of the candle does something funny to the way his eyes crinkle at the corners and his dimples cast a shadow that makes you wish you had a camera in that very second, but then the smile fades and so does the obscure shadow because now he’s busy telling you how beautiful you are with just his eyes, and your attraction to one another is the next most tangible thing in the room.
When the silence you hear is the most comfortable silence the world has ever known, and you have ten thousand things to say and one thousand years to say them but you are just content to sit and breathe easy and look across the kitchen table with mismatching chairs, across at your lover, who tells you how beautiful you are with just his eyes, and you ache for a pen.
When you ache for a pen.
When you’re wanting to write, in as many ways as you can, the crinkle of his eyes and the dip of his lips when they suck in the wine and the weight of his toe on yours, how such a gesture is so much more than one toe on another because he felt the need to touch you, how the most tangible thing you’ve ever known is in the room and its love and its sex and its energy and it’s the complexity in the overall simplicity that is utter happiness, and its loud in silence and its humming and you’re high, high on a cloud that no one could ever touch, high on all of these things. You’re itching to write it, write the story of each facet of blue in his eyes, how they revel in their color, write the saga of the five-o-clock shadow creeping up the skin of his neck and begging for your fingers, write the history of the wine that’s soaking his lips, his tongue, his teeth, you want to write the ways in which the candle burns and the number of steps it dances across his cheek. These things you’re desperate to capture, and it aches.
When he raises his flute – your flute – and says “Here’s to yesterday’s tomorrow, which is of course, today, and here’s to silence speaking it all,” and his voice is crystal that shatters silence into a firework and he sounds like the moon and the sun and the stars if they had a language to speak and he sounds like the Van Morrison which isn’t playing in the background and suddenly the ache for a pen is fading. When you raise his flute to meet yours, you clink glasses, you bring them to your lips, you sip them, drain them, quench the bitter-sweet affair that arises when two lovers top off a bottle of expensive red.
When his eyes smolder in the near blackness and the candle’s wick is starting to surrender and the energy in the air is more tangible than ever, then the ache for the pen is dying, and you’re content. When you know you could write ten thousand words for ten thousand days about the ten thousand ways he tells you you’re beautiful or the ten thousand shadows that come to learn his cheek, and when you know you could write them in such a way that could make him cry or make you content to die or in a way in which you make both of you fly, then you put the damn pen down and live in the moment, making well sure to enjoy what is left of the wine. Only when you know you can write it all later, only when you make sure to leave the butts of the #27’s on the floor and you let the candle burn as low as it dares and you sip from each other’s flutes simply because they are each other’s.
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