I have written before of the opening ceremony that begins our time together. He always asks me how I’m feeling, and I usually say “I’m fine,” or “Very happy to be here,” but it always assails me how mediocre my answer is, at best, and inadequate in the extreme, at worst.
Yesterday, in a burst of combined pre-session inspiration, emotion and an unexpected pocket of free time, I wrote a letter to Purrrrvert, and printed it out. At that crucial moment, when he asked me that customary question, I reached behind me for the folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.
He has told me that he fell in love with me initially because of my words. He calls me his Cunning Linguist (among other creative and adorable terms of endearment), and he loves when I write for him. But nothing prepared me for the clear and honest reaction that streamed between us as our eyes met, once he raised them from reading.
The eyes are the windows to the soul. I saw straight into his, and he into mine.
And I cried, for sheer joy.
When I am with you, you always ask me how I feel.
How I feel to be with you?
How do I find the words to cage the butterflies of feeling that well up inside me at the thought of being with you?
How much more so their siblings, glitter-coating me when no longer is it a matter of thought, but a warm and soft reality?
An accurate description is never something I can accomplish as I stand before you – naked both in body and soul. This is the time when I am focused only on being. The words come later.
Now is later. Now I describe.
I feel transported from the daily grind to an island of oblivion. Population: 2.
2. Pink Tabby.
No one else lives here; in fact none but us exist. This is our world.
So how do I feel?
There is no one emotion to encompasses the bubble of joy that encases me. It’s so much more than “happy”. I feel: