sarahrose: (lips)
If I was compelled to update my FaceBook status to reflect with what's really going in my life and head and heart these days, it would read some amalgamation of:

Sarahrose is ---

-- grateful for too many bottles of wine and intertwined limbs on a blanket by the lake with a boy will always remind me that he carries my heart throughout his vagrancies, and the potential space to explore the lips and heart of a woman I've adored for a very long time.

-- working in an underpaid and overstressed position, but aren't we all.

-- full with dark chocolate and strawberry crepe.

-- amazed by how beauty- and wonder-full it has been to witness the birthing of love between her partner and her good friend, and saddened by the struggle and fear that's caught us up in.

-- maybe going to start learning to hoop tonight, but, then again, is rather in need to some time with her self.
Music:: Mirah - The World is Falling
sarahrose: (lips)
via [ profile] bethofalltrades

But then, when and where I least expected it, there appeared a crack in the wall. I reached into it and pulled out a crumpled note, my own good advice, dusty and years old.

When given the choice to love or not to love, love. Even when it's senseless, even when it will hurt, even when you probably shouldn't, even when it's complicated, even when it's hard.

I grabbed for a pen, scratched a new line in at the very bottom, and hid the note again for my future self to find.

Especially when it's hard.


You showed up to my party, late, with heavy eyes and something of a sheepish "love me anyway!" grin: resurfacing after a month of secluded antipathy (and so, a month of skipped Sunday morning brunches, of derelict friendship, or eschewed attentions).

The evening's festivities devolved as they were wont to: you and me sprawled on my couch after the others had left, mixing the bottom of a bottle of whiskey with splashes of bruised red wine and the remnants of a vodka-infused fruit salad, lost in dialogue. I, relatively absent-mindedly, draped my legs across your lap and payed not too much mind to how high my skirt and slip rode up or the bareness of my thighs in your lap. (I was keenly aware, though, of your hands on my legs, and your playing with the layers of my skirt.) My head wound up on your shoulder, your arms around mine - none of this all too unusual. Then your hands started wandering, touching, feeling - the stretch of exposed skin between my skirt and my shirt, your fingers on my lips, then exploring the neckline of my shirt.

The talking stopped.

You hadn't touched me like this in over a year.

(Really, you hadn't ever touched me like that.)

There we were, wine- and whiskey-soaked, touchy-feely, amorous --

-- "this isn't about me being Barry and you being Sarah," you whispered, grabbing a hold of my neck scarf, bringing my face to yours: "this is about me being a boy and you being a girl... and so, maybe, I think, I think it'd be best if you just went to bed".

We'd been kissing and touching and (I was) (barely, hardly) breathing for some time.

(It was 4am.)

This is a delicate unraveling
Now and then I find pieces on the floor
Tiny little bits that tell me
Maybe I shouldn't do this
Or love you anymore
I like touching, and being touched - that physical expression of my connection with those I love and hold close - and so, rather than process your supposed dissociation of the flesh and lips and girl under your hands and lips from Me (Me, your groovy-organic girl with an intellect that rather stunned you; Me, with who you've always known a wild emotional synergy), I did: I went to find my partner in our bed and left you to crash on my couch.

(I heard you sneak out the next morning.)

I got this whole world inside
I was accustomed to showing you
All good things (come to an end).

I love you, my darling boy, even - especially - when it's hard.


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