inchoate

Things are happening fast. And I'm torn between wanting to share, and wanting to protect and respect what has quickly become precious.

Upstairs is no longer a novelty. Not that he ever was. Not in the dismissive, patronizing sense that one thinks of, when one hears a lover referred to as such. But he has certainly been a muse to me, and the writing I've done about him, up until this point, has been done from a place of (ever decreasing) detachment. Wonder. Fascination, at the connection we've made, and the moments we've shared - the ways he's amazed me.

But that shrinking space of detachment is gone now. Gone, gone, gone. I am attached. We are attached. And I feel a sudden, fierce possessiveness towards the memories we're forming.

And I wonder if maybe it isn't time to draw the curtain on that part of my life.

Maybe not the blackouts, but at least the sheers. Would you forgive me, if I did? Would you understand and respect that, or resent the fact that I've suddenly going mute, after sucking you into the narrative?

A few more glimpses, before I close the blinds, if indeed I do. I don't yet know.

A dark, crowded bar. A kiss. Your lips taste like Fernet. I don't know what Fernet is, or what it tastes like. He gets a sample from the bartender. It's overpowering, and I can't finish it myself.

A Saturday night. High heels, nerves, excitement - but also comfort, familiarity, and easy laughter. His hand on the small of my back as we step across the street. At dinner, he has me draw a grid on a piece of paper. In the first column, write your favorite animal, and give three words to describe it. In the second, your next favorite, and three words to describe that. In the last, your next favorite, etc. It's an exercise to show me how I view myself. A gimmick, of course, but it almost makes me cry, for how spot on it is.

His apartment. Music, wine. I turn my back to him and unbutton my shirt. Jeans, a soft, loose-knit scarf - nothing else. He grabs his camera. The softness in his voice as he tells me to step left, to wait, to look at him. Stay there for just a moment while I check the light. That's great, now let me see that beautiful smile. I ache with jealousy to know he's been paid to do this before. The gentle professionalism in his voice, guiding and kind and solicitous and low. Confident and sexy. I want no one else to hear it.

Music. So much music. We play song after song for one another. It means as much to him, resonates as deeply as it does with me. He gets it. I learn about him through music. Understand him - and what he needs to show me about himself.

Bringing food up to his apartment, and being greeted by his dog in the hallway, a note tucked under his collar. Thankz Ellie.

Intimacy. Words exchanged. Sliding down together, and giving in happily, readily. Vulnerability, and the letting go of fears. Love. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. A whisper in my ear: I'm so crazy about you.

Hi. He gazes at me, and I'm locked in, helpless. You know, when I say hi sometimes, it's because I feel like I'm seeing you for the first time. Some side of you I didn't see before. My heart falls away from me, too heavy to hold because it's gotten so full. I can't reply. How can I reply? Nothing would compare, so I just drink it in and smile, and we press our foreheads to one another.

An embarrassment of riches, in the love he shows. The compliments and consideration, the affection and playfulness. Did you think all this was in here, in me? No, I did not. I had no idea.

Forgive your blogmistress her absence this past week. Forgive her this gushing, incoherent and esoteric string of thoughts, of images. Forgive her for closing one door, because she promises to open up others, wider, in exchange. Forgive her, because she's stupidly, wickedly, truthfully, luckily in love.