Smiles, Holding Hands, & Penises that are not going to fit
There’s a spark in your candle that I’ve never really understood, wondered how you could stay so bright and uphold all the darkness that we longed to see be good; you maybe haven’t shared with me how dim it’s gotten at times, but I’ve known you so well and so long that I’m almost certain I’d know if you weren’t well. Like when you lost your brother and that pain felt like the death happened again and again or when you’d forgotten how to be a mother, how to offer all of yourself. What if there is simply nothing left to give to your baby’s crying head. No, I didn’t forget about the summer when you lost your way, but I still remember the glow you had when you shared about that horrible, no good kind of day.
Goodness lingered on you as you were. It’s truthful dwelling place, like a church where the smell still lasts. Even when the priest is back in jeans and the organ no longer plays, the incense has been long put out, the scent is in the air. Even the foggy linger isn’t there about you, nothing hard to understand. You light up the darkness in every room you walk into like you did my life that cool October day.
“There’s a spark in your candle that I’ve never really understood.”
It was a normal temperature, but I felt frozen, led down a stony, damp sort of path, nothing would warm again until your eyes met mine. I realized I’d done something real, oft-embarrassing; it was normal to us. I know you were but offering a hand to guide me from my off beaten ways, but I didn’t lace my fingers in-between yours because I thought something of it or of you, or knew you at all. The look from you to my face was something I will always uphold. Memory recall, the breeder of sometime smiles, and you are one of mine.
“We were both young loves, retold a story; censored and exposed…. ”
Maybe it was that I hadn’t held hands with any other woman in such a long time. All my handholding had been reserved over the last several years to a man I was in deep relationship with. Romantic fingers insist on individual hugs when their hands cup together. It was really a normal temperature type of day; it was a normal handhold kind of way for both of us, but… no with each other.
We were warmer than anyone else. Our fingers hugging each other, I had your light too. I know it shocked you that I did it, but I know you got it too.
“If you have a light, I don’t know what I have, but it’s not holding my tongue.”
Years later, I told my friend about my wedding night. She retold a story from you. I laughed with you, though you maybe never knew, because I had this experience too that, too, I shared with you. The honeymoon suite-sweetness; underdressing for the first time; permissioned-looks at each other, that for so long, prior to this moment, we’d self-denied. Looking at this husband before us, and with all the amazing things there were to say, you probably said them, but I am me and you are you. If you have a light, I don’t know what I have, but I’m not known for holding my tongue.
She told me you thought it too. The naked man before me stood so exposed and proud. I will never forget his laugh or his growl when I said it out loud: “oh shit, that’s not going to fit,” (firstly, yours was probably censored and) -you kept this in your head. I didn’t.
“Romantic fingers insist on individual hugs.”
We were both young loves of young marriages to come. I never would have guessed that only one of our marriages would make it. Statistically though it may, make sense, we both know it doesn’t have any kind of logic, right, or honor to offer us. Who knows why we each got the paths we get.
I don’t see you anymore. You probably don’t think of me. That’s alright for us both on both ends. I don’t know anything about your life, but one thing I cannot forget about you is your light.