I’m so used to writing the sad things, the dark stuff, the depression that insists on oozing through my fingertips and onto the keyboard of my computer. That’s just what I know, what I’m confident that I can do. This explains my recent absence here. The sad things are all out of sight. The dark stuff is lit up by beautiful starry nights. The depression has turned to compassion and my fingers seek his warm skin instead of worn keys.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to write warmly of someone in the present tense. To be able to look across the table and see poetry in his smile. It feels good. It feels like I’d been holding my breath and he finally came along and reminded me to experience the fresh air. He taught me to take a chance when a forced introduction leaves you weak in the knees. He shows me every day that the universe favors those who love hard. He trusts me not to break him, and I give him everything I have. Even the parts that hurt.
He’s not just medicine. He isn’t a remedy for another old heartache. This isn’t about me feeling better or finally shedding some of that darkness. Yeah, that stuff’s a huge bonus, but it’s not why I stay. The odds aren’t great, for us or anyone, but the odds of us ever even meeting were slim. We’re rare. This is special. I feel so lucky to have him in my life, to be able to trace poems out of his palms and kiss promises to his lips. I’ll just have to try a little harder to remember to write some of them down. It will be nice to look back when we’re older and say, damn, we are some lucky bastards to have known this kind of love.