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missed
posted Wednesday, 12 October 2005
First you miss the sex. The groping and sweating and complete release. The after. The quiet open moment resting next to each other when it’s safe to share all your secrets. The gentle kisses that hold the promise of snowballing into something less gentle, more exciting. The hungry kisses that spiral out of control until you are grabbing and pulling and eating up every part of the experience. The slow, deliberate movements that suck you up until your mind is consumed and all you can focus on is this other person, it is all that exists in the world, this person, right here, and rational thought is gone, you wish, forever.
Then you miss the security. Knowing what your weekend plans are weeks in advance. Not needing a date for weddings and openings and parties, corporate or otherwise. The routine of having fit another person into your life, a person who will dependably wake up at the same time and come home at the same time and have the same hobby that you shared in or didn’t. The armor of having someone to fall back on when single people at bars come calling. "Oh, I’m sorry," you used to say, "but I’m taken."
Then you miss the sweetness. The first nervous emails and phone calls and conversations. The newness, when everyone is on their best behavior and shiny and bright. The consideration and attention paid, the knowledge that someone is thinking about you. Preoccupied, perhaps to the detriment of their job and other interests. The notes left on pillows in the morning and the dinners brought home because you were too tired to get up from your nap and go out. The shared jokes and unselfconscious silliness. They way your hands fit together. The way your smiles were contagious. The way you could sit with each other and see joy in each others eyes and never once feel cheesy about it, though you knew you should. You are both too cool for that sort of thing after all. Instead you love it more.
And then you miss the person and there is no going back. You can replace all the other things, in one night or eventually. New kisses and new phone calls, new routines with new people who go to jobs and hobbies and bring home dessert from the bakery on the corner, wrapped up in a white box with a red string, just because. Because they care. Because they are sweet and secure and good in bed. All is replaceable, except the person. You miss the person and that is all specifics; his hair, her eyes, his laugh, her smile. The way he gestured with his hands when he got excited about a topic. The way she danced around the living room to her new favorite song. The way, when they kissed, he turned his head to the left, every time, and she never opened her eyes.
You miss the specifics, the individual. You miss the you that you were with them. You miss the unit you made. You miss the way things were right.
You miss their hand on yours, and the look in their eyes.
Then you miss the security. Knowing what your weekend plans are weeks in advance. Not needing a date for weddings and openings and parties, corporate or otherwise. The routine of having fit another person into your life, a person who will dependably wake up at the same time and come home at the same time and have the same hobby that you shared in or didn’t. The armor of having someone to fall back on when single people at bars come calling. "Oh, I’m sorry," you used to say, "but I’m taken."
Then you miss the sweetness. The first nervous emails and phone calls and conversations. The newness, when everyone is on their best behavior and shiny and bright. The consideration and attention paid, the knowledge that someone is thinking about you. Preoccupied, perhaps to the detriment of their job and other interests. The notes left on pillows in the morning and the dinners brought home because you were too tired to get up from your nap and go out. The shared jokes and unselfconscious silliness. They way your hands fit together. The way your smiles were contagious. The way you could sit with each other and see joy in each others eyes and never once feel cheesy about it, though you knew you should. You are both too cool for that sort of thing after all. Instead you love it more.
And then you miss the person and there is no going back. You can replace all the other things, in one night or eventually. New kisses and new phone calls, new routines with new people who go to jobs and hobbies and bring home dessert from the bakery on the corner, wrapped up in a white box with a red string, just because. Because they care. Because they are sweet and secure and good in bed. All is replaceable, except the person. You miss the person and that is all specifics; his hair, her eyes, his laugh, her smile. The way he gestured with his hands when he got excited about a topic. The way she danced around the living room to her new favorite song. The way, when they kissed, he turned his head to the left, every time, and she never opened her eyes.
You miss the specifics, the individual. You miss the you that you were with them. You miss the unit you made. You miss the way things were right.
You miss their hand on yours, and the look in their eyes.