Sexeteria

Here's how I want it to be.

I want time. Time to sit, taking in the vibrating air between us. Time to know the feel of every miniscule measure of my palm on your cheek, or on your arm, or against your own palm. And to feel every miniscule measure of yours on mine. Not moving, but still, to take it all in.

I want time to know the feel of all that. Time to not rush like teenagers. Time to know we have all the time in the world, because nobody is going anywhere. Time to know we're not going anywhere because there is nothing at risk, because here, here, here is where we are, here is what we want, here is where we're going to be and it's good, good, good.

I want tenderness beyond words--and still trying to say it with words even though it's beyond words.

And so it's time, time, time that you love
And it's time, time, time.

I want time. I want time to be held. Held not tightly, insistently (because yes, there will be that, too, much of that, but first, please this). Held gently, warmly. Held not as a means to progress to other things, but held simply because for you, holding this warm being full of light that is me close to you is as precious as anything; no more is needed, because there is time. Time for this before all the more that is there to have. (And there will be so much more. But first, please, this.)

I want time. Time to be held like this, held until inside there is no more shaking, no more questions, no more doubt. And I want time to hold you in exactly this way, too.

I want time to feel the warmth flowing between us. I want time for our souls to pause and see each other and greet each other with, hello, friend. And then smile the word love.

I no longer crave the spike and the crash of hard chemical candy love-lust. I want warm, homemade, slow-baked scones with Devonshire cream. I want time to lick the crumbs off each others' fingers; kiss it off each other's mouths. Time to boil water for tea, and steep it, and then sip it slowly, together on the couch.

And so it's time, time, time that you love
And it's time, time, time.

I don't want the rush of wildfire and then the scorched forest of cold ashes. I want a long, steady burn. Time, time, time to luxuriate in the glow. Time to build it high and steady and strong, time to thrill at every crackle, time to warm our skin now that we've come out from the cold.

I want time. Time to savor the sound of your voice in my ear, and your scent, and to think of how much it feels like home. To know I no longer need to be afraid that the door to that home will ever shut me out, or trap me inside. Time to get used to the fact that it will always be open, and that I am both always free and always welcome to come inside.

I want time to wander around the rooms and get my bearings. I want time to sit with you in the garden there; with all of you--the who you are beyond everything else--and come to know finally, finally, that it's safe to keep my door open as well.

And so it's time, time, time that you love
And it's time, time, time.

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Photographs from the marvelous series Guests by Christopher Bucklow. All photos copyright of the artist. If any of you can afford to purchase art, please buy his work. It's beautiful.