My words were wandering, voices inflected, laughter, little more than that as we lay up in the dark room.
He is my friend, one I could tell anything, I imagine. I have. I am telling him my secrets about you, the things that you and I have done together, the things we might have.
We talked about sex parties and old lovers, and rhetoric. The comfort of words, here in the dark, devoid of anything but the warmth that eases them from brain to brain, topic to topic, bouncing and gently swaying sometimes. I thought of you, there, thought of the first star, and the dreams I long pushed down, as if my wishing would make them fade fast instead of bringing them to life. I wish, still.
My face reveals nothing here in the night, I realized, and I could just turn away, quietly. He didn’t have to know, and neither do you.
I realized then what I was trying to say to you, what I told you I wanted.
Not this. Not quite.
I lie in the dark and swap stories with my friend. We could fuck.
We could fuck and still be friends, and lie here in the dark, and it would not mean so much, except that we had fucked and laughed and were still friends.
And still, none of this is what I want with you.
I want context.
I want the dark.
I want the comfort.
I want the quiet and the night, your hand softly brushing mine.
I want to lie with you here, in the dark, and plot and scheme, the words as much the adventure as what we’ll do to invent them. As much as all we did to speak now.
I want to hear what you thought, today, and tomorrow, and what you think about what I thought.
Is it to0 late, for us, for pillow talk?
Were we looking for adventure? to feel alive?
Oh, love, the novelty of the moment is charming.. but it was never the new that thrilled me, you know.
It never was the shimmer on the surface, the fleeting smile that caught my eye.
It was the memory of the shimmer, of your smile back, thousands of nights later, the footsteps we heard, the knock at the door we answered, and invited in, and kept, treasure like the first night, retold, stripped down to this touch so familiar, the breath, so precious, ours.