I place my hand on that spot of my chest where my heart beat lives: fifth intercostal space, midclavicular line. And I feel you there. Every feeling I feel for you, every word I have to say to you, every longing I harbour for you presence, it all originates from that one spot of my body ~ the point of maximum intensity. I can only think about when next I’ll see you, touch you, taste you, breathe you, smell you.
The story, our story so rich in detail and drizzled with passion, sits in the lining of my heart. It’s raw, it blooms, like an angry wound silently screaming for attention. It’s embedded in my viscera. You live in the most visceral and primal of my planes of existence. Beloved, something so deeply intertwined within my being ~ I cannot so easily retrieve. Our story, it’s like a circle. No beginning, no end. Just a deceivingly simple-looking Euclidean shape. There’s a touch of divinity, a touch of perfection, in a circle, isn’t there? I think so. I think so. Still. How do I tell such a story? Where does an entity with no beginning, begin?
It’s a lovely and quiet Sunday evening and I am sitting here, in front of my screen, listening to a song called Dreams, by a group called The Cranberries. Dreams ~ Did you know that you lurk about in my dreams? Yes, Beloved. You do. When I feel weightless with longing for you ~ that violent sort of longing that causes my heart to burn ~ I retreat to that dusky spot inside myself, my inner soul, and I find you there, waiting for me. Waiting for me, and watching. Like I watch you: the method and grace of your movements, the scent of your pillow, the soft texture of your hair, your gentle voice, your golden green eyes ~ they have all penetrated my consciousness, imprinted themselves upon the retina of my soul. My existence in your absence feels oppressive, like a vacuum. And wanting you, like I do, makes me feel so restless, so fickle. I live outside of my Self, searching, waiting, for you. Darling ~ my body and beloved, my pain and my passion, my mystery and master ~ I yearn for you. It’s wonderful. And it hurts. I long to feel near enough to you to taste the flavour of your pulse.