I put my head on your shoulder and I was at home.
All the buzzing in my body stopped. The buzzing that hadn’t stopped in the 10 weeks I spent travelling. The buzzing that got me through my trip that included the excitement, the anxiety, the fear, the joy, the fact I missed you and everyone else.
The buzzing that was silenced as soon as I rested my figure on yours.
My body and my head quiet for the first time since I left you.
Relaxed and finally at peace, because I was with you again.
I was in awe then and I’m in awe now, from the impact you have on me. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how someone can do this to me. I don’t understand how I love you so much that my body goes from consistent light thrumming to complete serenity in a second. It scares me. And it scares you that you feel the same.
We don’t have the luxury of time together. You have your own thing going on and I go abroad soon, for a year – booked before we became serious – and maybe that’s why everything is so consuming, why everything we do has such intensity. Because we’re relishing in each other whilst we can.
But really? Will I really not have true stillness unless I’m with you? And I don’t know, I don’t know if that thought should make me happy, to be so lovingly obsessed, or if it should worry me greatly, and make me fearful of a year spent without you and without tranquillity.