![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Interlude: Solid Words
Apr. 15th, 2005 08:46 pmWe are sitting in my car again, outside his house, like we have so many times, kissing our goodbyes. But this time, we've lingered, letting the engine cool, talking of things both important and inconsequential. I have idly been watching Orion's belt dipping closer to the horizon, telling me that Winter is now over and Spring has begun. Suddenly we are kissing, and then he is looking into my eyes.
"I love you."
It is the third time in as many nights that he has said this to me, and the significance of that number makes my heart do a little flip. The image of the Three of Swords flashes into my head again, a heart holding three blades, a heart divided. I want so much to answer him in kind, and yet I will not lie to him, will not feign feeling or delude myself. It is a different kind of love, I think, that makes me give him this courtesy.
"Don't worry about screwing up. There's nothing you can do to make me love you less."
His words give me pause, they turn my heart over again and again and my mind is now spinning empty, useless circles like a skywriter with a bent wing. I had expected his love to be the little kind, the kind that comes from glands and is really the stepcousin of lust, and yet here he lays this weight at my feet, and all I can think is that there's hope for us yet. And suddenly, the little things melt away, and all I want to do is melt into him, and curl arms and legs together and sleep in a warm bundle with him. But there is still that small, sudden place in my mind that wonders how much of this is filling the habitual place that's now left open in my life. And I argue with that place, because trying to fill one man's shape with another's presence would be like trying to stuff a square peg in a round hole. They both fill empty holes in my life.
"I love you."
It is the third time in as many nights that he has said this to me, and the significance of that number makes my heart do a little flip. The image of the Three of Swords flashes into my head again, a heart holding three blades, a heart divided. I want so much to answer him in kind, and yet I will not lie to him, will not feign feeling or delude myself. It is a different kind of love, I think, that makes me give him this courtesy.
"Don't worry about screwing up. There's nothing you can do to make me love you less."
His words give me pause, they turn my heart over again and again and my mind is now spinning empty, useless circles like a skywriter with a bent wing. I had expected his love to be the little kind, the kind that comes from glands and is really the stepcousin of lust, and yet here he lays this weight at my feet, and all I can think is that there's hope for us yet. And suddenly, the little things melt away, and all I want to do is melt into him, and curl arms and legs together and sleep in a warm bundle with him. But there is still that small, sudden place in my mind that wonders how much of this is filling the habitual place that's now left open in my life. And I argue with that place, because trying to fill one man's shape with another's presence would be like trying to stuff a square peg in a round hole. They both fill empty holes in my life.
