Remember when we would sit on your floor, talking, listening to music, just being together. Sometimes I had a ten page letter I had written for you, decorated with brightly colored doodles and fancy letters, pouring my heart out about this or that, like a child who has just discovered the rainbow. And someone who doesn’t mind hearing her talk.
I never told you I was coming. I would just show up at your door in an odd, awkward way, blurring the lines between poor tact and love. But you always let me in. Always smiled. Made room for me in your life, in your home, on your floor. You offered me food which I always declined, because I never ate in those days. You didn’t mind that either. Come as you are. You are not judged here.
Sometimes you would pick up your guitar and strum a few chords as we moved closer and closer together. And then eyes would lock. Maybe an hour later, maybe more. It just depended. It didn’t matter. But once they met and held each other’s gaze there was something magnetic that would spark. We got a little quieter. And then a little closer. And when you touched me, my skin tingled, and sparked in a way it has never done since. I can still feel your warm hand just below the hem of my shirt. Not a greedy hand, not a hand that was working to get what it wanted. Just the hand of someone who saw all of me, and never made me feel bad about being myself. A hand and a body that spread love and acceptance across my skin like a salve that smoothed the world over.
When we made love I was awkward and inexperienced. I only knew the kind of sex that was unpredictable and asked too much of me, but that wasn’t you. You were strong and soft, and careful, and free. And in the end, you weren’t done with me when it was all over. I wasn’t a used piece of trash that had been crumpled and now needed tossing. You were still you, and I was still me. Even after we made love, you still looked at me with kindness. Not a victor, but a friend. A lover as lovers are intended to be. A partner and an equal.