I’m afraid of upsetting you, of disappointing you, of bringing darkness into your life.
I’m afraid of my own actions fucking up something I hold so dear, so sacred.
Maybe a little — afraid of your intensity, extremity, afraid of your volatility and the possibility that you could flip a switch and turn your back on me.
But as quickly as you’re harsh with me occasionally — you recant nearly as fast. A coffee shop “I’m sorry. I’m growing. I’m learning,” after I’ve left your boots out in the snow all night. And they’re soaked. And you’ve no other street shoes and we’re five hours from home.
The back-talk in my head: but you’ve left them out too; you watched me strut out onto the patio in your shirt and boots alone over my swimsuit, remarked that that was “the look;” - and you sent me inside after we soaked in the hot tub with your friends, after I lingered to crawl privately onto your lap after they’d gone in, to kiss you in secret - before you sent me inside; to dry and be warm, as you close up the jacuzzi…you could’ve grabbed them too.
Though I’d never dismiss my own accountability. I apologize sincerely, then playfully inquire whether the way I woke you up shouldn’t neutralize my wrongdoing?
The way I woke you up — and as I was waking you, you said, “Promise me you’ll never stop doing this for the rest of our lives.”
kianamaiart
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