Still, sometimes, she’d lay awake next to him and think of all the things she wanted to say. All the random, little tidbits and fragments of ideas her mind had conjured, that she couldn’t ever say out loud because they were just so disgustingly, sickeningly sweet. Writer or not, he just wasn’t a fan of the sap—not too romantic, if at all. She was a dreamer, and he was a realist, totally obsessed with facts. Something told her that he would never believe in something he couldn’t experience for himself, which was why he’d stopped believing in God, or any god, many years before they’d met.
They had spoken about the possibility of a Designer once, or maybe an Architect, at the very least. He’d said that he believed it sometimes, whenever he saw sceneries too beautiful to have been made purely by coincidence. She, on the other hand, didn’t have to venture to beaches or mountains, or wait for the sunrise or the sunset for proof of the Designer.
It always amazed her how strong the human body was—how stable and solid bodies had been built. It seemed perfect, the engineering, the design, everything—from how the systems all flowed together to how the mind could trick the body into feeling what it wanted to. It was excellent, and though she knew she would never understand it completely (sometimes she regrets not paying more attention to Science class in high school), she could at least say without a doubt that she appreciated it.
Every curved muscle, every carved bone.
She’d run her fingers along his shoulders, trace his collar bones, trace the curve of his spine, feel the threads and fibers of his arms, press into his body with hers, share his warmth, feel his breathing as he slept, listen to his heart as it went along its dull thump-thump in the middle of the night. She’d press their hands, their lips, their skin together; watch him as he stood there in all his magnificent glory and welcome him into her arms as they collapsed together.
With every sigh, she marveled at the strength he possessed—how he could take her weight whenever he needed to—and the force that he could exert. She’d think of all the things he’d had to go through, and be just as amazed at how robust he had grown.
And there she was, lying next to him, the complete opposite of what he was.
She knew her body all too well, from every bulge to every fold, and it amazed her just as much to know that the human body could come in so many different shapes and forms, in so many different states and conditions.
She looked up into his clear eyes sometimes and laughed at herself, with her growing blindness, breathing in with lungs more damaged than his, a body more sickly and frail, a heart more tattered and bruised.
But every body harbored a new secret—something not visible to the human eye, something that one had to dig deep to discover.
And it thrilled her, burying herself in his scent and losing track of where his body ended and where hers started, to know that they had, in fact, shared those very secrets with one another. And maybe it had all started to make sense to them both—maybe the past two decades had suddenly gained new meaning—maybe he would start dreaming again.
She knew that he’d never understand, and she’d never have the time to explain before he’d laughed and they’d resumed the rough-housing and the teasing and the tickle fights. But she’d always lay awake at night for just a second longer to press into him and make sure that he was real, that he was there, that she wasn’t alone.
Originally posted on Tumblr on Jul 2nd 2012