I woke up with a start. My hair was matted, sweat beaded my cheeks and temple. My heart, aching. I realized then, that it wasn’t sweat but tears that were running down my face. I ignored it all… my obscured vision, my swollen eyes, my runny nose. The teardrops patted my legs, drip, drip, creating clear stains on my thighs.
My body was crying even when I thought my emotion ran dry.
My other half. My love.
He took my heart and kept it…guarding it fiercely like unkept gems, refusing to give it back. By contrast, he took his own and wrapped it delicately. So delicately. Like wrapping lace or silk. He presented it to me royally when we were sitting on the beach earlier that night.
“It’s yours,” he said, and I held the beating organ as tightly as I could. Blood was running down my arms. I didn’t care. It was his.
It was mine.
We made love that night for the very first time. He kissed away my tears and gently rubbed away any anxiety.
“We are in this together,” said his body to mine.
He wordlessly praised me, touched me to my soul. I didn’t know how I was able to breathe, so afraid was I, of the love he poured into me, a passionate bribe. My heart exploded and my vision crackled as lightning crashed all around and the ocean roared and the stars danced. I realized too late that I no longer was one whole me. I was ripped in two, a seam that could never be put back together.
And as I drifted, I carried your heart, delicately wrapped and bleeding against my chest. And I cried…tears of frustration but also tears of joy. I fell asleep with it beating furiously beneath my hands.