Do you remember the day that you craved physical touch?
I mean- me neither- I don’t remember because I never craved it.
I am what one may call a ‘pessimistic hopeless romantic.’
Not even a realist, really.
I’d fall in love with the way a touching moment was written-
Like the ones where the guy would gently grab the girl’s face and plant a soft kiss on her cheek.
Though it’s hard to imagine that over the sound of cracks coming from your neck after someone forcefully grabs your face.
I’d watch movies about the love of someone’s life helping them get over hindering fears,
But it’s kind of weird to believe those things exist when you can’t even keep track of which fear was created by someone you trusted.
How can you write about being cared for,
When someone has stared into your eyes as they stated they’re retracting their compassion for you.
Note to self- compassion is refundable I guess.
Or when you go to apologize for being the way you are- they say it’s okay, but they tell you they’re unsure how much longer they can be patient with you.
Similar to a parent on the brink of snapping after their kid can’t understand why 1+1 equals 2, to be honest, I still don’t understand it.
Then again, everything was always one sided.
My favorite times-
Were what I wrote about the others:
The facade based poetry works, of how calm one’s green eyes reminded me of the sedating forests-
Even though I was too scared to look in their eyes.
Or how I wrote about one who brought light into my life-
Yet I suffocated in their darkness.
Or how I missed the embrace of one,
But I disregard how they left me stranded on the cold ground one night- like something you’d read about in a thriller novel.
But I remember the day I craved physical touch for the first time.
It was the same moment I felt the most warmth,
Even though my right arm was over the blanket and I could feel the cold room,
It was inferior to the warmth of the hand I found right between two bodies.
In another poem, I once wrote,
if one would remember the countless times I would apologize for being fucked up,
And when I state those apologies now-
You respond with kindness and reiterate that ‘there’s no reason to apologize,”
“We’ll work through this,” you say.
And now I’m looking over my old works of poetry- the ones infused with romantic fantasies,
Wondering how these things are becoming a reality.
I remember the moment you wanted to hear my heartbeat,
I had to hold in tears,
Because I was always the one to listen to other heartbeats-always seen as a silly thing.
No one wanted to hear mine.
But as you put your ear to my chest
I wondered if you knew that those heartbeats were for you.
I listened to the peaceful silence when I would wake up randomly while we were sleeping-
Wondering how a year ago I was on the brink of walking away from life- because someone’s version of care for me -was abuse.
I was remembering how I was with people that would cuss me out and yell at me to get out,
Or not fight for me to stay with them in their lives.
I fall back asleep-
And the next morning you pull me in as I rest my head on your chest-
While you say that I couldn’t believe I was there.
Nor could you believe that I was your’s.
And I think about that Saturday evening,
How I opened up about the stressors I don’t dare share with people,
But I shared them with you.
Maybe I expected the normal- “that’s life.” response,
The shoulder shrug,
Or being left alone with my stressors having to save myself from drowning and suffocating-
And you grabbed my waist and pulled me into a hug as you reminded me of the present-
Something I never could do,
You kissed my cheek as you said, “one thing at a time.”
Is this even real?
I think about the poetry I used to write-
About how I couldn’t wait to show affection and compassion through touch.
Me- the anti-touch introvert who barely can give long hugs without feeling awkward.
But I knew back then that my person would make me feel safe enough to be that vulnerable.
And you did,
As I snuck up behind you, rested my head on your shoulder,
And ran my fingers through your hair.
I think about our late night conversations-
How I’d sacrifice a few extra minutes of sleep,
Just so I could talk to you longer.
Even if that meant I sacrificed a bit of makeup in the morning too.
I think about the day I went back to him,
When I was interested in you.
And maybe that’s why I detached from him,-
Because I felt something towards someone else-
If we’re being completely honest-
I wanted you instead of him,
And maybe that explains my immense happiness as I texted you about what I did a few weeks later.
I’m sorry for that period of time that I never responded back.
I was thinking about you during that time.
Who knew you’d have such an effect on me,
Look at me-
I bought a ticket to see you,
Traveled through an empty airport-
Amongst a international pandemic-
Just so I could meet you.
I open up about my embarrassing stories
In an attempt to make you smile and laugh,
Because every day- you make me smile and laugh,
Like you don’t have me yet- like you’re still trying to win me over.
You brought the spark back,
And now I’m stumbling over my words-
Even though this used to be my playing field.
I’m spilling my guts
And unveiling the heart I wear on my sleeve.
Just so you can see how much I care about you.
Because I’d go through all of my heart breaks, abuse, and betrayal again if it meant I’d end up in this same place,
With the same man I get the blessing to call mine.