"What are you thinking?"
"I don't know."
"But you're a poet!"
Let's ignore, for the moment, that compliment and its effect on my ego. I will tell you why I have no words. You said once that I am gifted at expressing emotion in my works. True enough. But I was in no condition to find words in that moment - because I was feeling it, feeling everything.
I could feel your heart beating under my ear. Could feel your hand on my back, rubbing gently then with force, sending shudders of ecstasy down my spine. (Probably getting me more excited than even you knew.) Snuggling me closer every minute, calling me pretty, resting your cheek on mine. Kissing my forehead.
I am Thomas the Doubter, my love. Grace will tell you: I am a hopeless romantic, but I do not believe anyone could love me back. I did not think, for one minute, that you would kiss me again. Leastways, not for years. That instant alone, your lips on mine, shattered the walls I had built up so carefully to keep you out.
But then afterwords, that kiss you leaned over to give my forehead... Elohim! Why? You didn't have to do it, I did not ask for it. So, did you want to? After we kissed I pictured it in my head: that night where you pushed me away and covered your face in your hands - when that rush of horror flooded my stomach. I was afraid to open my eyes, I knew I would see that face again.
With a super-human effort I opened my eyes. You were smiling at me. Smiling! How I kept from crying I don't know. The thought that you were happy, that I could make you so...that you were holding me half as lovingly as I was holding you...I wanted to die. There was no way life got any better than that moment and I wanted to leave this world as happy as I was then.
That is what I was thinking.
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