the return of the king

i actually slept with out the flicker of the tv last night. nothing special about that because my bed was full.

i slept so soundly, no dreams danced in my head at all...or at least, none that i can recall.

i had forgotten how much i love that face. with it's deep laugh lines and coarse stubble. those lips , those beautiful lips that force me to span the distance and hold his cheeks in my fingers so i may drink them in.

i cried myself to sleep last night. he stroked my hair and smiled at me. he can't understand the distant fear that lives in the dark space at the back of my head, the spot that sits directly behind logic and a little to the left of my paranoia. but he doesn't mock or pity me for it. his women have weak eyes. though we rarely cry for grief or sadness. for that we write.

we cry for happy. we cry for relief. i don't cry when he's gone, but i cry in the moments after his return when silence wraps us together naked and weary. my head rested in the crook of his shoulder and my salt stinging his skin. i will always berate myself for the tears that flow, so unnecessarily. i pride myself on being made of sterner stuff than that. and i have little tolerance for weakness. though i am plagued by my own

but he doesn't laugh and he doesn't tease. he strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head and holds me until i am done. and for that i love him more.

2009-07-02 11:07 a.m.