11 November 2011

Guess I'm pretty weird, huh.

This isn't love.
It has started as love, at some point, that much is for sure. But it moved past that early stage long ago, past the flirtative tension and testing of boundaries and chast kisses and hugs that were even more tame. Over the times where we would handle each other as fragile, delicate and so, so breakable over it all; we still are all that, of course, but we have seen deeper into the layers of rock and iron and the strength that is so specifically ours. We accepted and embraced it and now it is just a part of us. We roam freely and kiss hungrily and purr into each other's ears in the neverending game we play. When we hug now, it's crashing the air out of each other's lungs alternating to sweet touches and then again just holding each other for comfort and nothing else, and we don't have to talk anymore to know which is appropiate. We just know. We know each other now, learned to wear the other well. We got to get to know ourselves, too. And we've seen the fragile, breakable parts and we've seen the broken splinters and we tried to help and mended some things and accepted that others simply aren't ours to mend. And we lean into each other, in body and mind, and seek refuge and strength and reliance and find it. And it's all going to be okay, eventually, because this is what we are.
It started as love, at some point, that much is for sure. At least for me it does. It was all or nothing from the beginning, hearts broken or fused forever, and the passion and longing burned everywhere and ached and it was horrible and delightful and hot and brilliant, this love. Then it settled into something more solid, more fundamental. Like breathing. And when I find myself smelling of him in the morning, or her hair in my brush, I don't even think anything anymore because they are a part of me now. Impossible to separate. Not without pain and blood and a mess and quite possibly death.
This isn't love.
We are beyond that.

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