If I hear the word again these welling tears will overflow.


We discuss, we digress, I wish for the intimacy, the sweltering intimacy but so much more than that, the deepness that is more than an flippant eye connection, whether it be on the street, in a crowded place, through a window or in the darkest moments before sleep in which eyes meet.

Is it the communication? The talking, does it have to occur? And is it worth it? To be intimate enough to call it intimate, in a sense that is beyond the sweltering? Beyond the blankets? I find it hard, it is my struggle and as they say the word introvert I identify, I relate and find myself writing while they talk and laugh. Introvert, but I feel being within my vert, my reality, my world, my vortex is worth it, is different and selective.

And so I continue to question intimacy; to get is to give and I find myself holding so tightly on to secrets waiting for the moment that I may let them out like a babbling, bubbling brook and yet I foresee no rain, no precipitation that will start this flow. Left to anonymity? Or waiting on intimacy?

A touch, breathe on the nape of my neck, soft lingering caress on the small of my back. Yours eyes smile at me, intimacy shared. Our private thing, our little secret. You exhale, I inhale. I exhale, you inhale. In the dark I trace your face with my fingertips intimately. In the dark you trace the curves of my body.

No longer vert, no longer struggling. Connected in a myriad of ways.

I feel intimacy

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