Loving....

[endlessdel]

Loving. Write about a person you love. This apparently simple instruction may be more difficult than you think. What makes us love people? How do we avoid being sentimental when describing the attributes that make someone loveable? You will immediately be faced with the decision of writing about someone you love or loved romantically or as a friend. Or perhaps you’ll choose a family member. Your greatest challenge will be to make your reader love this person, too.

Loving...Chris Stevens.

I try to pretend that being human is what makes me love him, it’s not but it’s a nice pretence. I’ve loved before, he knows that and he doesn’t mind that I’m kind of scared of him, scared of how he makes me feel inside. My insides have been all tangled for a long time, long before humans walked this planet and long before my eyes didn’t match. I haven’t always been this way, love changed me.

I don’t have a type, that is too human and narrow minded. These two aren’t alike at all, the one I loved and the one I love. The differences are too long to even bother listing; I can’t even tell you why I loved him. I can’t remember much from there, too much pain and bad memories. I just remember being hurt and hurting for such a long time until I broke; shattered into a thousand pieces. I can’t remember why I loved him.

I can tell you why I love this one though. All those pieces of me, pieces I had forgotten and feelings I’d lost; he has found them. He’s taken his torch and set me a blaze; he’s remade me and melded me into this sculpture. I’m not who I was, I’m too different for that but he’s made me beautiful again and whole.

I like waking in the morning, we don’t smother each other in his bed and he’s respectful of my space. He learned that in the joint, being respectful of other people’s space and even though we share the night together, he still knows not to coddle me too much. I don’t mind him holding me close but sometimes I need the air, the sky and the grass and he always knows when to give me that bit of distance.

I love sitting listening to him, toes buried into the sand and the sun on my face. It doesn’t matter if he’s next to me in the form of a shiny wind up radio or if he’s sat behind me kissing the curve of my neck as he recites Robert Frost. Words have meaning and power; he understands that and every word he says he means. His words are never lies, he speaks the truth and it makes me shiver in wanton desire.

I like how he listens to me, actually listens. I know he doesn’t understand at first but he tries, he listens to me and he doesn’t laugh at me. He prefers talking to carnality, I understand that but I like that he gives into me, gives into his body and we listen to each other in a different way. We listen with our bodies.

I was in love once before, he hurt me badly. I don’t know where this is going, I don’t know if he is going to hurt me but for now all that matters is that I’m his art, his poem and I love him.

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