Bodies

While he is asleep, all I can think about is his body.
This body that I know so well.
This body that seems like an extension of my body.
Whoever said dead men tell no tales will never understand the splayed open chest kind of vulnerability that happens between lovers at night,
when the covers have been kicked off,
when his eyes are soft and his gaze is filled with love and wonder.
This is the type of vulnerability that has me quantifying my worth as a direct correlation to the number of times he’s said ‘I love you’ today.
The type of vulnerability that leaves me breathless, body always asking for more, more, more. Insatiable.
It’s tears and laughter and love and it is two bodies together even when they’re apart.
It’s two bodies and the way they embrace, the way lips embrace, the way hands embrace, the way arms embrace,
There is so much vulnerability between two bodies and the way they embrace.

During the day, his body is next to me in the driver’s seat. One hand on the wheel, one hand on my thigh.
Our bodies become time and distance and voices.
During the day, his body is lying next to me and the gentle domesticity is the other side of vulnerable found in the simplicity of a kiss, a smile, fingertips on skin.
This is the side of vulnerable that knows only love, love, love.
The type of vulnerable that makes me a better me, that makes me want to be a better me.
The type of vulnerable where we both know we’re only ever going to change like tectonic plates, slowly and monumentally all at once.

Don’t tell me dead men tell no tales.
I know the vulnerability of two bodies standing in front of each other, chests splayed open, hearts extended, pleading for love.