- April 30th, 2010
Love, heightened, is like a summer storm. Seashells and random bits of paper attain ridiculous levels of sanctity. A little green light beaming out from somewhere is like a friendly wave, an affirmation of love.
I love you.
I'm glad I told you, and by how you handled it, I love you even more.
I've loved you more and more since we've met. You're the only guy in my life who has bothered to stick around as a lover, as a friend. All the rest come with hidden agendas, or don't care enough to try, or mess up so badly they can't come back even as friends. You are honest, and you are so much of a human being yourself you let me be one too.
I will always remember the first time, our first time. And every time I think about it, what jumps out at me is: not the hours of conversation where we shared so many things, staring eye to eye, not the pink sunset on the terrace just preceding going to our room and shutting the door to the world, not staring out of the windows at the mountains after you fell asleep -- but your face staring down at me, in that first instant. Your face so close to mine, just above mine. Your eyes looking down at me. The compassion, the placidity, the steadiness of that gaze. No one's ever been this close to me before. You smile. You're inside me, but we're not moving. It's like a miracle. (the miracle of sex, the miracle of love) It's that instant, you're inside me, and you're above me, and we're looking at each other. That moment, that image of your face pops out at me first, before anything else, when I think of that night. (the miracle of sex takes over, but the magic never fades)
I remember the next day. The church. It was so impossibly beautiful. It rained. We went to the gazebo. Then a couple came, and we gave them a water bottle. They were nice. The walk back to town, that last surprise kiss. Thanks, mate! you said, after you surprise-kissed me, like I'd done something special. You didn't want to see me off at the bus stop... that said much more than anything you could have said. You wanted to say good-bye just after I bought my overnight-bus journey packet of raisins. I pulled at your hand. Come. And we walked. That last view of the mountains together. See you -- soon, on the road, you said. You went back and slept for fifteen hours, but not without texting me first. Ridiculous! I'm ridiculously happy. Still ridiculously happy? Yes. Still? Yes. What's ridiculous? Our (l)ad(y)-venture. God, I love you in that silly floppy hat, with your glasses tied around your head with black string, with that sleek wrist always dressed up. I couldn't say it then, didn't know it then, but I can say it now whenever I like, it doesn't matter. You know now. So I can say it here, to myself, a million times. I love you. God, I love you hiding in that silly scarf that evening in Bhagsu.
I was walking differently, and I was changed forever.