A Prose About Love

There is a time when the body is most still between breaths.
This happens either at the top or the bottom of one’s breath,
and at that moment, the body is in its stillest position.
And there is something to be said about watching
as the one you love breathes. There is something to be said
about them in the stillest moment
with their eyes elsewhere, lost in thought, and perfectly content
with a semi-smile.

There is something truly amazing about this moment
when she is not thinking or behaving—
instead, she is still,
and I can see her perfectly
without any interruption.

Long ago, I slipped into a dream, wondering about her
and what she might look like,
or if I would know it was “Her” when I saw her—
and I emphasize the word, “Her,’ as of to describe
the only woman in the world that could otherwise complete me.

I wondered what this would be like or if at all,
because had I sworn off this dream
and sworn of love as mistakable lust,
would I know it was her just because she walked into the room?

In a thousand different thoughts and a million different fantasies,
I wondered about my approach. I wondered what I would say
or if I would know what to say.
Then again, I wondered if it were really “Her,”
would I really need to say anything at all.

She would be anything and everything, but yet,
nothing like I expected. Instead, I knew she would be
more and more so beyond what my dreams
could ever possibly contemplate.

I envisioned “Her” always, considering what it would feel like
to lay beside her or feel her legs against mine
while sleeping in the middle of the night.
I thought about the tune of our breathes, whether they would be
in sync or would it be different. Maybe I would exhale
so she could breathe in, or otherwise,
maybe this would be this way in reverse.

I think of things, like sure, candlelight and an autumn moon
beaming in through a window of someplace
I have never seen before,
as in a town far away from where I was as a boy,
but now as a man, I am stepping forward and yet feeling so young
and impossibly thirsty.

This is daring of me, I know, to admit all of these things;
to admit to my weaknesses, to expose my most vulnerable thought,
and to submit me this way.
But for “Her,” there could be no other way.
I could do nothing else but give me to her, and by this,
I mean all of me, wherever this may be;
I would have to give literally everything
because it has cost me everything just to get to where I am now.

I picture her this way, soft beside me, undressed and close.
Outside, the night has fallen, but inside, I face the sunrise to a new life
because I am with her.
Suddenly, everything that happened before this
has become literally meaningless.
Nothing means anything anymore—except for her that is
and the way she makes me feel.

I want to feel her lips against mine.
I want to hear her voice in my ears for the rest of my life
and even longer. I want to feel the swerve of her body
and calculate how many times I could touch her on a daily basis.

I know that as a man, I am supposed to portray myself as tough,
as if I can beat the world and that I am capable of anything.
But nervously, I admit this would just be an act.
I know this because as soon as she enters the room
a piece of me is weaker than ever, but when she touches me,
all of me is stronger than ever because to me,
he is the antibody to my fear.
She is the answer to my riddle.
She is everything

I know this.

Love is real. I know it is.
I see it this way and I refuse to see “Her’ in any other light than this—

beautiful . . .


One thought on “A Prose About Love

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