I like the wiggle of you under my skin, carving your space in the swirl of cells and blood and bone and white, cold hunks of fat. I like to think I too have a space just inside the dermis, atop the blood pump in the third to sixth intercostal spaces, above the thrusts and rhythms of the life you’ve made for me.
I like the miracle and mirage of us, nirvanas accessible only in dreams and snatched moments fading in sunlight, or perhaps disappearing in the grime and dusty footprints of sanity. I like our words, not love or forever or endearments rotting slowly after steeping overnight in stale saccharine, just plots and projects and policies- solid like us.
I like this place, chiselled from reluctance and irresistible, that holds us when we want and sits warm while we wander. I think we would wilt if we had the chains of routine and mundane, if we had found ordinary, we would die twice. I like that tomorrow floats a little out of reach and when I let the string go, you are there to grab it.
I like you- monster, angel, mine.
For S, as always.