On Lovers, This One

He's something. He's turning into a curiosity in my brain, a speeder in the tunnel, a mystery in compartmentalized boxes.

I'm wary. He's wary that I'm wary. There were moments when he let his guard drop. He sat frustrated at a table during a game. Once I walked in after an early shower, and he was lying in bed, pensive in the sheets. At times I felt him stir, and I waited for him to fall asleep, and sometimes he didn't take long, sometimes he waited until I began to breathe heavy. Pretending to sleep. He pretended too; he was on the verge of sleep realms as close to the edge as I usually am. Sometimes he looked at me funny. When he didn't look at me funny, he practiced being with me, and gave me no looks at all. I liked that.

We've only crossed paths less than a handful of times. After each time, he has lingered longer with me. During those periods, I'm hopeful. But as time increases before either of us would make contact, I'd grow nervous, even fearful. This is when I mute my emotions.

I believed him when he said, "unattached." I believe that after an open-ended trip to South Asia, he'd be uninhibited and hoping to continue a state of commitment to no commitments. He hasn't said this. I thought it. He is older, a generation older, and he is quicker to let go the vestiges of mood, memories, or broken words - they hardly alter his momentary course of action. Sometimes I've been daunted by his experience, that perhaps our age difference would not lend me his affections, only lust. That he laughed at my child's words, and agreed only to appease my child's thoughts. I am intimidated by and I desire his fearlessness.

I think I've fallen into his cautious warning - my attachment. It's okay to want to know him, maybe. I want to know his childhood, his behavior, his relationships to people, his work, his pain. I want him to let me read him. I want to see his face outside the context of his bed, and in sunlight. Maybe that requires the intimacy of more than a lover, a partner, which I believe he is not seeking in me. But we have only crossed paths less than a handful of times, and I am eager for another fistful - quiet enthusiasm.

This conversation has occurred once, today, and in writing, to myself. A conversation induced by imposed thoughts, because he has invaded me in the literature of our relations.

Incapable of this, I feel. I am not built for just lovers.

But I enjoy this one. I like his sighs. I like that he explores me, even despite my protests. We've shared. I like moments when I know he's angry at himself, even if momentarily, and he quickly flings it aside and finds something better to feel, and we quickly forget and simply enjoy. I like his casual care for me, his attention, his trained weighted language. I like slowly learning about him. I like his process. I like that his work is the way he lives. I love his breath, his breathing.

And this is why I'm afraid.