I woke up this morning with piercing little rays of sun seeping through the curtains, moving across my sleeping husband’s face. When he’s asleep the lines in his face melt and he looks again the 19 year old boy he was when we met.
To the sound of a bumble bee moving slowly across the window pane we made love, languidly and quietly.
After making love, when you are lying lazily in each other’s arms, there’s a window, a short opportunity to speak candidly, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. And we did.
I believe in the desire of the flesh, and the incurable loneliness of the soul
He is afraid. He is afraid of being alone. He is afraid he is getting punished now for all the things he has done wrong. He feels vulnerable, weak, lonely. I curl up against his chest and listen to him talking while I watch the prisms gleen in the French cut chandelier. I realize it’s been too long since I gave them a good clean. So I end up thinking about my own shortcomings while I listen to him agonizing over his.
The things we do to each other, the things we do to ourselves…
Tenderly please, wrap your rags around my frazzle.
Handle me with care, Son of Man
I will find a way to protect the men I love. I must.
Somehow I will find a way.