Everything about you used to make me gasp.
I’d literally be rendered breathless, I’d turn to vapor, only a googly eyes, a racing heart, and the stars that lit up my face.
That’s gone--dissipated, replaced with the stale scent of familiarity.
No longer the crisp, dewy scent of new beginnings…
No longer the rush of euphoria when you hand would so much as brush against mine.
Or the way our kisses would stilt the seconds, like the entire world paused, and there was only timelessness and you and me--as though we were encased in the glass-like dome of our blooming terrarium love, filled with lush succulents and orchids so bright purple they looked like jewels.
Fairies would live there, I’m sure.
That feels shattered now.
Each time your lips re-unite with mine, it is no longer a fiery chapter book, but a scrawny sentence that doesn’t make a heart yearn for more.
And we’re supposed to be polite, we’re not supposed to mention these things, we’re supposed to bear it, but it’s heartbreaking when love shifts, morphs, and changes shape.
When it loses that plump sweetness.
"Stop phoning it in!” I wish to shout, if I was braver.
“I want magic,” oh, how these words wish to leave my lungs, like a rush of cool, fresh air.
This hum-drum familiarity is boring as f*ck.
I crave lust and ripeness and the pomegranate fruit of exploration and all that was contained in the budding excitement, when we first laid eyes upon each other, when the moon was full, and our hearts were curious, and the Spring air was laced with the subtle scent of honeysuckle.
You dripped into my bones--and I couldn’t get the essence of you out of me. You drizzled me with poetry and told and showed me often, all the time, how much you cared.
I want that again.
“I want that romance, goddamnit!” I wish to yell to you under the bed sheets, as you snore and sweat, as I lay faced away from you, shocked into a mild state of sadness. It’s subtle. It’s not terrible or earth shattering--I could easily not notice it. But I’ve gotten into this habit of not being able to push anything away, these days...
Is this what love is?
Am I just too restless, my heart ever steeped in fantasy?
And perhaps we are just comfortable.
But I’m a woman.
I wish to be looked at like I make Spring bloom.
I wish to touched like I am art, like I am woven of cool, Summer nights and warm, hazy mornings spent lingering in bed where the world is juicy, where it feels like everything is possible.
I wish to be looked at like I'm fire.
I wish to be kissed all over, and laughed with joyously, every inch of my body, heart, mind and soul explored hungrily by the ever-growing well of curiosity in you.
I wish to be written love letters and graced with gifts that open their petals in the sun.
And I’ll give to you the same.
I want love to be an adventure--one that we’re constantly co-creating.
Not a scripted, tragedy written on old, yellowed paper. Not anything with any predictable ending.
And maybe I’m a dreamer. Maybe I should learn to appreciate what seems to me dull and ordinary.
I’d rather infuse the extraordinary in everything.
I’d rather just own what I truly want---
And I want magic.
I want wandering.
And I want love that drips over me, like a nectar made of stars.
I want to be my wild, tigress self, with you, howling just as loud, dancing just as fiercely, by my side.
I want to barrel into the deep, blue ocean and run through fields dotted with daisies and Queen Anne’s Lace.
I know how to sustain magic in my own life--in the constantly moving galaxy of my creativity, it’s alway freshly squeezed, raw, and covered with dew.
Because I cultivate it, every damn day.
So why can I not make that with you?
I can. We can.
I need you to stop phoning it in. I need me to stop doing that, too.
And maybe underneath, maybe really deep underneath, we both hold back because we’re afraid to get hurt.
Because that electricity, that magic---it’s unruly. It’s scary. It’s vulnerable. It’s the shiver of goosebumps that means you truly see me. That I truly see you.
But, I’m gasping for freshness, the uncertainty and tenuousness and beauty that love is. The way it flutters, then pulses in my gut, like a squid. And these words are the ink. They drip. I can’t bottle them.
We have become our museum, my dear. Everything is well-lit and clean, but cold. Unable to be touched, not warm or breathing or sensually alive.
It’s our rapid decline into the dementia of what made us fall in love in the first place.
Maybe all we need is to remember that.
Imagine all the fun things we could do to ignite that remembering…
Like naked picnics and strawberries and pouring champagne all over each other’s bodies, only to lick it off, as we graze on chocolate and the incredible views of the mountaintops.
And maybe these are the kinds of things I could never tell you---I could just put my head down and bury it and live as a shadowed sliver of myself.
But I’m feeling bolder now, in the raining chaotic release of these words--
So don’t be surprised
When I tap you on your complacent shoulder
And say, in a wistful tone
“I want magic again.”
And in my head, I already know what you’ll say--
“Me too!” you’ll exclaim, your eyes lighting up like sparklers.
Just to ignite the wonder and mystery, the endless adventure that love is.
Just that alone.
Well, who knows where that could lead.
I’d love to find out.