It's morning. I already had a slow dance by the fireplace in our room, barefoot and in my nightgown, Lochlan in pajama pants and nothing else. It's warm enough that the windows were open and Blue Rodeo blares from his phone, propped on the mantle as we make a slow circle in each others' arms.
He absolutely hates it when I travel without him now. Won't have it any longer, refuses to consider such a plain and vivid logic in that sometimes it will happen, will no longer let go, as it were and I couldn't be happier. This is my place. He is my person, and as hard as they try to blur history, to sand it down and hope it blows away on the wind, I figure it's what led me back around to him.
I took the long way home.
He smiles, but says nothing, holding me tighter. I don't think he understands that I mean from life, and not from New York but that's alright. We venture dangerously close to my open suitcase on the floor. I haven't unpacked yet. I didn't want to miss a moment.
I'll do it later. Maybe. Or tomorrow. Right now I need this.
The best part is Ben, sleeping soundly in bed, covers pushed down around his waist, expression so peaceful. He is out cold, relieved to be free of some entanglements that shouldn't have been this hard to end, but that's what life is, as he pointed out in the offices as we left. It's messy and it's fucked up and we should all be working harder to make each others' lives easier.
In my birthday wishes this year that seemed to be the theme. That instead of debilitating me with their motions, their moods, their words, they're going to try to work harder to help me through. Lift me up, keep me safe from their own destructive thoughts and deeds, the ones that keep us mired in present-day quicksand, on the whim of the wind.
Don't you dare, I warned with a smile. Progress is good but we're creatures of habit. I love them for trying but I also don't expect sweeping changes overnight. We are the people we are because we've been formed this way and change is a freeclimb, a drive up pikes peak with an obscured windshield, a battle I've been fighting forever, and I run ahead, looking backward to see how much I've left behind only to turn around and run into it again.
Try morphs into Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road and Lochlan's done it again. I couldn't make progress if I tried, for he triggers that twelve year old so fucking easily it isn't even surprising any more.
He absolutely hates it when I travel without him now. Won't have it any longer, refuses to consider such a plain and vivid logic in that sometimes it will happen, will no longer let go, as it were and I couldn't be happier. This is my place. He is my person, and as hard as they try to blur history, to sand it down and hope it blows away on the wind, I figure it's what led me back around to him.
I took the long way home.
He smiles, but says nothing, holding me tighter. I don't think he understands that I mean from life, and not from New York but that's alright. We venture dangerously close to my open suitcase on the floor. I haven't unpacked yet. I didn't want to miss a moment.
I'll do it later. Maybe. Or tomorrow. Right now I need this.
The best part is Ben, sleeping soundly in bed, covers pushed down around his waist, expression so peaceful. He is out cold, relieved to be free of some entanglements that shouldn't have been this hard to end, but that's what life is, as he pointed out in the offices as we left. It's messy and it's fucked up and we should all be working harder to make each others' lives easier.
In my birthday wishes this year that seemed to be the theme. That instead of debilitating me with their motions, their moods, their words, they're going to try to work harder to help me through. Lift me up, keep me safe from their own destructive thoughts and deeds, the ones that keep us mired in present-day quicksand, on the whim of the wind.
Don't you dare, I warned with a smile. Progress is good but we're creatures of habit. I love them for trying but I also don't expect sweeping changes overnight. We are the people we are because we've been formed this way and change is a freeclimb, a drive up pikes peak with an obscured windshield, a battle I've been fighting forever, and I run ahead, looking backward to see how much I've left behind only to turn around and run into it again.
Try morphs into Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road and Lochlan's done it again. I couldn't make progress if I tried, for he triggers that twelve year old so fucking easily it isn't even surprising any more.