New Theory

 That feeling. The one where I know exactly where I am. Who I am. What I am. Your arms wrapped around me and I'm calm. So gentle, your touch is sincere and patient. I have my head in the crook of your elbow. You are looking at me like there is nothing else in the world, but what is happening right now. Everything is white. It's not new. Not modern. It's old. It feels like a house built in the '70s, particle board painted white to cover up the decade. The couch is old, too. It holds us up without sinking, so we sit for hours. We talk. I know it's time to go soon. I tell you I don't want you to go. You tell me that it's just for a little while... That you'll be back again before I know it. I feel placated by your words, but I don't know if I want you to go either way. In a blink, it's all gone. I'm late. I'm running around, but in the way that I do with urgency and not in panic. My mother yells to me that it's time to leave. I ask if I have five more minutes. It's a wedding, and I want to do my hair and make-up. She gives me a look at the bottom of the stairs that says I probably don't have five minutes, but she knows I will take them anyways and probably already accounted for them and we really have ten minutes. I nod. 

I wake and wonder how long the feeling will linger. The one where I feel safe and calm. That feeling that tugs at my heart, strengthening the strings that attach it. The feeling that I know I am secure, but that I miss the familiar that was tied to a piece of me for so long. We exchanged the pieces and now I am left feeling like I miss the vessel, but grateful for feeling whole again. I feel the edges of the sadness like a thunderstorm that brews, clouds billowing, light flashing, booms of intensity... Then it fades back into the nothingness. That part of the storm is kept at bay. The one that can erupt sending floods of salty tears out of my eyes, moans of anguish that never had a home. The lost and hopeless feelings that search endlessly for peace, finding only more reasons to be torn. 

I'm thinking of you and my body aches. I feel the soft spot between my thighs that weeps at the thought of your fingers brushing against my skin. I'm climbing and reaching for the top of the impulse. I can picture your lips curling up, the pull of your intentions helping my stamina. 

I wake and laugh. A forever metaphor. You could never help me reach the climax to the story. You were finished before the book's final chapters. The rug was pulled and I was left floating in space, laughing at the vacuum.