There was a stillness in you, that I’d always liked. A stillness that I’d already fallen for. It was in the way your eyes focused. How your fingers had touched mine with such tender intention. I saw it in your interactions with my family; the way you’d sat through dinner with a hand on my leg and a line of conversation and a small smile that brought my blood unrest. You’d proved it when you’d held me on a lazy Sunday as I told you nothing in life was ok and I’d wanted release. You’d counteracted my wild with your calm, cool, collected. And I think slowly that stillness found a way into my voice and my heartbeat and my want for you. We became the rested souls. But maybe that was too little to live with. Maybe that stillness had settled over the burn of the way that I thought I’d loved you. Maybe that intentional touch became unwanted and the unrest too permanent. And maybe I’d found that release in the stillness of your body, but maybe that was the problem.