The muscles in your arms. The way they rippled when I put my hand on them, when I rested my fingers just above the crook of your elbow, and also the way they didn't give when I laid my head against them. The weight of them around my waist, resting against my ribs; the way those muscles crushed me, pushed me deeper into my own skin than I've been in a very long time.
The coolness of the skin over those muscles against my cheek.
The way we didn't look each other in the eye. Maybe you tried; maybe I didn't let you, maybe I couldn't do it. But all those hours, and I don't remember the shock of eye contact. Maybe we did, maybe there was no electric tingle, maybe it was all in my head. Maybe I am creating a story of thin air, ether, fumes. But I choose to believe it didn't happen, because it must be shocking when it does. If there is no thrill, there is nothing.
I remember my belief in absolutes.
I remember sounds. Wind in trees. Possums under the porch. Confused urban robins, singing to the streetlamps in the middle of the night because they thought they saw the sun lightening the sky.
Soundless lightning.
Falling asleep. Every step in sinking down to unconscious, pinned snugly in those arms. Deciding to fall asleep. Deciding it was ok not to be entertaining. Deciding to rest. Each of my muscles going soft in a wave from my toes to my forehead. Waking up warm. Doing it again.
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