longing.

The longing is loud, most days. Every day. Mostly at night. Mornings, too. And those frequent times I wake up in the middle of the night. It’s when I feel closest to my desires. The house quiet, settled where everything within me has space to rise up. The longing is so loud. I can almost feel my heart reaching out inside my chest with both hands, pounding fists against sternum.  Exhausted at the inability to fall into the hands of the one who was created to hold it, turn it over, explore and devour and love love love the whole broken thing. Barriers. Those imagined things can feel so real sometimes. As real as bone.

I know, with certainty, what I long for in those still true moments. Him.  The weight and profound presence of his body right next to me.  His hand to reach across the bed, roaming to find home around my hip just to pull me closer. His face.  The one I can turn to in those quiet (and loud) moments and hold gaze with, speaking purely with no words. A co-creator, a master of exploration, a soft heart that joins me at my boundaries, knowing just how to make me move forward.  A curious mind teaching me the things I do not know.  A spirit that can hold the ever-evolving expanse of me.  A body I can love. I can love. I can love. A vessel holding all the millions of moving parts in one place. The multitude of perfect imperfections that I can hold with my arms, in an embrace, in a touch, with a whisper in the ear.

 

Boundless. Tethered. Together.

Longing.

It is loud, most days.

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