With twenty minutes left of work, there's nothing much I can do.
One project buries my desk, three others sit in piles on the floor.
I am finished for today (an act of rebellion in the corporate world).
Instead, I sit here, again, in a vain attempt to write of the love in which I've discovered myself.
This is, perhaps, my seventh or eighth effort to share what my body feels.
Each time, however, the words are inadequate. The sentences trite. The tone a little too saccharine.
When trying to write of Emibeth, of us, I feel that I'm standing too close to a magnificent painting, and only one moment, one aspect, one degree of intensity is visible.
I see, for instance, Emi's blue eyes.
I see, for instance, the red-orange-warm colors of my orgasms.
I see, for instance, the white-clearness of our first snowfall together.
And by degrees, I feel the intensity of us.
I breathe from a different place.
Secure.
This is what it feels like to be securely fit together.