like the feeling when you miss something before it's happened. something you can picture with such startling clarity that it becomes more real than the sound of the rain on the roof or the strange light in the room or the two or three tears you have shed but haven't bothered to wipe away.
like the times when just a few words can make your whole body feel different. like it's swelling up from the inside and there isn't enough room to breathe all of a sudden. all the while your skin feels different too, like blushing or goosebumps or a wildfire; like something that radiates in an instant.
like the feeling of hands so big they makes every part of you feel small and vulnerable when they're touching you. like the feeling of not being afraid to be those things, of knowing you will be cradled and never hurt, the certainty of it.
like the feeling of every cliche ever written swirling around in your head, of being the first person to ever feel these things. the last. the only. like the self-deprecating chuckle that gets lost somewhere on its way to your lips.
like the feeling that for once, you don't mind being a cliche.
like the things that used to tear you apart inside: the warmth of him, the solidness of his body asleep against yours. like the surrender he only showed in slumber that is now yours even in the glaring light of day. like the victory that's irrelevant in the face of surrendering back, of balancing. of the feeling of falling without fear of falling.
like the fears you've tied up in clumsy paper packages and handed over with your trembling hands and accelerated heartbeats. please.
please.
like the question you never had to ask; like the answer you already know.
like the times when just a few words can make your whole body feel different. like it's swelling up from the inside and there isn't enough room to breathe all of a sudden. all the while your skin feels different too, like blushing or goosebumps or a wildfire; like something that radiates in an instant.
like the feeling of hands so big they makes every part of you feel small and vulnerable when they're touching you. like the feeling of not being afraid to be those things, of knowing you will be cradled and never hurt, the certainty of it.
like the feeling of every cliche ever written swirling around in your head, of being the first person to ever feel these things. the last. the only. like the self-deprecating chuckle that gets lost somewhere on its way to your lips.
like the feeling that for once, you don't mind being a cliche.
like the things that used to tear you apart inside: the warmth of him, the solidness of his body asleep against yours. like the surrender he only showed in slumber that is now yours even in the glaring light of day. like the victory that's irrelevant in the face of surrendering back, of balancing. of the feeling of falling without fear of falling.
like the fears you've tied up in clumsy paper packages and handed over with your trembling hands and accelerated heartbeats. please.
please.
like the question you never had to ask; like the answer you already know.
