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I love that you are human, with your beautiful veins and twitches and sighs. That we share the same airstream, that the ins and outs of your flaws fit like jigsaw pieces against mine. I love the way this is effortless, and even my exasperations vanish in the wake of your wholeness.

I am so lost in my heartache that I forget I am standing at the sink, wringing my hands full of soap over and over while the water runs. Gritting my teeth, I stare at my eyes. Deep down into the dark narrow pupils, I still see the glimmer of your reflection. Other women come and go without a word. They know this need to wash every hint of unfaithful touch from the skin, and so they let me be.

I stood next to the planter, waiting for you to come to the door. My sunglasses are pink, they glisten and hide the way my eyes dart back in forth. I do not smile, I do not sigh, I simply stand like a statue. For each moment I wait, my doubt grows, creeping like vines up my legs and waist, clinching my arms to my side. I am always afraid you will not answer.

I am holding out this olive branch, crying for you to ignore it completely and take my wrist instead. Begging for your hands to circle my waist, wishing for you to close the gap to breathe me in. The moment in the morning, when you wake, the way that earth and ice melt together with a flicker of sun. All in silence, with the words unspoken ringing in your sleepy eyes, promising without sound that the red dye of our hearts has run together, and we will never be the same.

The dirt under the nails, the sweat trickling down the temple. In this, there is beauty. In this, there is love. Each movement an ode to something greater, each deep breath a second of something lovely bursting into existence. The need to make, to build, to hold, to cherish is the contagious, the plague of Spring.

I hear the whisper in the back of my head, the one that keeps mumbling and muttering, the low undertone to the screams and chaos and panic I always hear. While the others are clamoring “not good enough, not fit enough, not smooth enough, not even enough, not smart enough, not social enough. Not. Enough,” the littlest of voices hums to me: “Enough. You breathe, you smile, you dance, you sing, you build, you remember, you love. You’ve always been destined to be enough, if only you give yourself the forgiveness and grace to see.”

Her boots clicked across the floor, pacing back and forth as she argued. The words were clipped, more growls and sighs of exasperation than complete thoughts. He sat on the couch and sipped his beer, torn between trying to ease her anguish and trying to avoid her wrath.

Truth is there the moment the room goes gray, the sun setting but not in a gold way. There’s a stillness and a tranquility that sits in the silence, but your heart is pounding and your ragged breath grates on your ears. Your eyes blur as you stare in the darkening shadow. The flame extinguishes before your eyes; the steady inhale and exhale ceases. The paleness of skin sets in, the color dissolves from lips, and your tears crash against the floor like indignant waves clamoring for purchase on the shore. When the words dangle in your mouth but there’s no way to purge the depth and breath of this spring inside you, this overwhelming tempest that has nowhere left to go so it hurricanes within. Then the Spectre puts His hand on your shoulder, offering the cold comfort that someday He will come for you, but not today, not now, and He is sorry He can offer no more respite than that. When all the color fades, it is only you and Truth waiting in the bedside chair, and when She offers you Her hand, you feel hardly strong enough to take it. But the hold is solid and tangible, even when it burns your skin, so you let this new mistress haul you from your seat, and your heels click obedient across the cream tiled floor. She cradles you in the car as you cry and cry, She guides your shaky trek home, and as you sleep, She whispers promises that after all you’ve lost, She will never abandon you.

The overt smile before the handshake hid the tightness of the grip, the moment of threat and intimidation. The clasp that whispered “Remember who holds the end of your leash. Remember whose favor you have to curry. Remember that I am not afraid to be ruthless.”