Return To Me

We were lying in bed, facing, eye to eye. She told me that sometimes she felt I didn't love her, that I hid too many thoughts, kept too many secrets. She wanted it all, the love and connection, that terrible vulnerability that we all fear. I ran my eyes back and forth the length of her neck, the slope, up rising, her shoulder. She is that beautiful song that never leaves your head, just recedes, returning every now and again.

I met her eyes, took a moment to see if she'd turned into smoke. She was still there, fully formed and realized. I wanted to kiss her. I knew she'd only think I was trying to avoid what she really wanted. She wouldn't be totally wrong, I've always been more comfortable expressing myself to the women in my life through physical contact than with words. Easier to explain away an action, a sudden unwanted advance, as meaningless, but an I Love You, unrequited, falls hard, and is never forgotten.

She wanted sounds and syllables, strung together in those romantic loving ways, that could be accompanied by anything Miles Davis blue. Was she really the lover I wanted forever and ever until something catastrophic comes along to undo? Or was she just looking for fodder, looking to create some chaos, looking to regain control of her emotions and mine by picking the fight that would lead to the slamming of a door, that would lead to the silence, until she needed all to be forgiven.

Quiet, on bare feet, she'll enter through the front door, stepping softly so as to not disturb, then enter my bed, hopefully forgiven, but not forgotten. She always knew to ask around whenever she came into town, if I had found someone to take her place. If temporarily I had, then never a word out of her. But if I was known to be spending my nights alone, I always knew to expect a late night or early morning visit.