Still. Still as in calm. Still as in stationary. Still as in even now.
There’s twigs and dirt stuck in your hair, and still you’re beautiful. You snore and mumble nonsense sometimes when you sleep, and still I love you. I like still. Still doesn’t obey the natural decay of time. Still gives the illusion that anything can be infinite.
I would like to love someone at an extraordinary calibur, the most extraordinary that I can give. And I would like them to love me at that calibur too, in those moments where it’s difficult, but most of the time with the ease of breath.
Am I asking for too much? Am I seeking something too close to perfection?
I get scared sometimes that I am, but then I feel deep down in this bottomless pit in my chest that it’s already mine - a warmth fanning across the plane of my cheek, a sparkling receptivity on the tips of my fingers. Skin tingling like champagne.
It may be my only poetic, romanticizing brain. Or maybe something else. Or a little of both.
I hope that it’s a little of both.