It's so unlike me to exist without definitions. I panic. I need to know where my feelings are allowed to go. I need to be able to give myself permission to be vulnerable, and a certainty of the future allows for an easier transition into bearing myself to another.
But this is something entirely different.
This is...
That sentence dies away without a predicate. There's a power stronger than my fear of the unknown preventing me from nameing this.
(I think it's a fear that it'll disappear)
But I lose weight when we're spending time together. Not the weight of gravity pressing down on my shoulders, but the weight of myself. I feel each piece of hurt break from my body and fall to the ground beside me with the softness of her hands on my face.
Each day I like her more. Her body becomes familiar to me. Her breathing inhabits my thoughts like Mozart's Requium lingers in the energy of a room after the final chord's been played.