The newspaper predicts flurries tomorrow. Flurries on the twenty-third of October seems unbecoming, but this is my first New England fall, and I am learning as the days turn, what it means for the seasons to change here.
My mind sits. Pensive. Caught. Released. Pensive again.
Like Autumn's denouement in Boston, contentment, to me, is unfamiliar.
My mind searches for conflict. My stomach heaves, squints, somersaults at the slightest bump, the slightest turn-taken-too-quickly, expecting something more harsh--a near-fatal collision, paralysis of a limb or two, a broken heart.
But I have never been more safe from harm.
She needs like me. Her eyes search for more of me. More love. More depth. More of my arms encircling her. More.
She is unlike any other voice in my head, in my life: Your expectations of others are too high.Why do you ask for so much?Emotions are bullshit.You're too sensitive ...
And always there are the shadows of people pushing me away, impressed on my body as scars.
But she pulls me closer. Encircles me. Devours me. Gazes (I have never been gazed at so entirely before).
In return, she gives herself, and I never had to ask.
Still, it is so strange for me to open my eyes and see that it is only the world that's bruised today.