That was way more romantic that it should be allowed to be. You made me feel incredibly beautiful and incredibly loved. You blamed it on being comfortable. “We’re comfortable with each other now,” you said. But I didn’t feel comfort. I felt love.
I like to write about the sex. About how you teased me at the beginning and made me want to kiss you so badly my lips were tingly. I like to talk about how you pinned my arm to my side so I couldn’t move and I felt completely at the mercy of you and I ate it up. I was willing to take anything you were about to give me, but instead you gave me romance.
The one thing I wasn’t prepared for. I can’t even write about the sex because my mind goes to the moments after — the moments filled with your hands and your kisses and your eyes. You would have stayed there all night in that moment. I’m not convinced you would have tried to sleep at all. Just taking in all of me. Shit that’s a dangerous place to be with you. Especially because I like it so much. You make me feel perfect. Like I belong there. But I don’t. I used to be sad that I didn’t get to keep you. That these were borrowed moments that belonged to someone else. Tonight I’m sad that you don’t get to keep me. I feel for the first time like you want to. And that fills me with joy and terror at the same time. I can’t.
We didn’t used to kiss after. You’d hand me my clothes and sit on the couch and wait for me to leave. I’d smile and go out the door. Now after is filled with kisses and snuggles and giggles and love. It’s terrifying. What’s happening. We can’t stay here forever, but where’s there to go. We don’t want to go backwards and there is no forward. Maybe tonight I’ll melt into my bed, into that place that my mind goes where this could make sense. Maybe we’ll move to that place. I’d live there with you.