soft love
a closer look at "the third thing" (from the archives) #crappypoetry
I realize that maybe I’ve been painting my person as a dishonest, ableist, avoidant douchebag with a phobia of personal accountability and proper apologies, who said they loved me and wanted me in their life forever, then (a few weeks after the sex finally happened) proceeded to discard me and go on to live their best life, as if I had never mattered to them. As if I wasn’t the one who had saved their fucking life less than a year earlier. As if they didn’t know I had been counting on them to save mine…
Welp. 😣💔
But as shattered as I still am, I’ve been feeling like I want to do a better job depicting my experience inside the bond my person and I shared, as well as the role it played in my awakening. Because even though we only lasted a few months as “the third thing,” it was the most beautiful form of intimacy I have ever experienced with another human. (And I am still clinging to the idea it was mutual. At one point, anyway.)
I wrote this one last spring. It’s a bit strange to see the he/him pronouns when I read it now, because––as I had told my person several times, and as I wrote in “things a man oughta know”––they were never a man to me. Even if I’m the only one, alive or dead, who saw and felt and loved them that way, which I do believe is the case. And I guess that’s their choice…
I’m posting this one year later with an evolving understanding of what it was my person eventually ended up letting me “borrow,” as their feelings finally started to align with mine, if only for a brief time. Because even though what happened between us toward the end of last summer ultimately destabilized our connection and brought about its end, it still was a beautiful gift they gave me.
It’s gift I am still in the process of opening, I guess. But it’s mine to keep: the reflection I saw when I looked into their soul-mirror, showing me the person I am becoming. Along with how, what, and whom I love.
And as confusing as it still is––as much as it all still hurts so much, every goddamn day––I will always be grateful.
💜
soft love
Go to him, the universe whispered,
guiding me into his arms.
Would I have resisted this much, had I known?
How soft a man could be.
How sweet and absolutely fucking magical…
The mirror frightens me sometimes.
But then I'm pressing my face into that heavenly spot just under the side of his jawline.
Brow, temple, cheekbone, the bridge of my nose––
each feels more satisfying than the last,
the crackling radio static coursing through me,
dissolving into a gentle hum.
And as I listen for the melody,
the pain loosens it grip.
The internal tremors fade.
My breaths deepen and synchronize with his,
and I swear I can feel my brain receptors slowly repairing themselves,
one by one.
I caress his hair,
his neck,
his shoulders,
his back and arms––
When did he start letting me touch him like this?
And how can it possibly feel this fucking good?
I stretch my hands over his,
lace his fingers in mine,
try them on for size.
Hands that are softer than any man’s hands I’ve ever touched,
that are barely larger than my own,
that play music I've never heard.
I raise one of them to my lips,
because suddenly I've been hungry for his softness my whole life––
But that is where the boundary is.
I still don’t know why.
But it’s okay.
Because I don't have a fucking clue what we’re doing.
I don't know what I want,
and neither does he.
And we might already have it,
right here,
and the moment we reach for it is the moment it will vanish.
So maybe it’s enough for me right now,
just to marvel at how the universe has sent me this beautiful soul to love,
how I finally get to feel it all,
and I can see for the first time that
love
is
soft.
And I wonder if he ever will let me borrow his soft love,
for a little while.
