Your thumb brushes my bottom lip and suddenly I’m crying in earnest. The palm cradling my white hot cheek is rough, worn-in. Your fingers are reaching for the base of my hairline, holding the bones of my spine in place. I love you here. Forehead to forehead, waiting while my body breaks within yours. We are the love they talk about, here. The grandeur and the painted picture and the good honest truth.
You look at me the way all women want to be looked at by a man. You press lips to the skin between my eyes, say ‘it’s ok’ with your fingers down my back. Here, I am vulnerable. I am a target that I know you will not shoot. Here, I am all yours.
I hold your fingers in mine. Let myself feel small. Trace the life-line, heart-line, fate-line of your palm. I think about us inside those lines. Suddenly your body yanks at mine. Suddenly we are two people once again. But as you wrap me fully in your arms and squeeze just tight enough, I know I am safe as myself. Head tucked into your neck, arms instinct-X’ed over my heart, body rebuilding; I let the tears hiccup and stop. I can feel the smile in your chest, the heat of your happiness. ‘Enough for us both’ I (always) think.
You tangle your hands in my hair, distance us and watch. I let a smile tease my lips. You let yours fly the coop. Then you kiss me. But you don’t just kiss me, no. This time is different. This type is different. It’s the type where you know you’re in trouble. The type you’re already an addict for. The type that people write books about.
It’s the grand theft of the heart, and no one is around to catch us.