I want to ask you over. I want to watch you pull into the driveway and walk up the steps, bundled up nice and tight, ducking in from the wind. I want us to fall into the couch together for a movie, maybe something old, maybe something scary—or light candles and start dancing to a jazz record, only to collapse into laughter, tumbling to the floor and maybe staying there a bit, talking for a while. perhaps here my hands gravitate to yours. perhaps here you smile and play with a stray curl between your fingers. I want you to come over while I’m just finishing something warm to spoon into our bodies; a hearty stew or healing soup. I want to saw into a thick loaf of sourdough and hand you a slice. would you like some butter? in this vision I have, the evening has a way of never ending, but I leave it be after we look up to the windows and see that the wind has carried a snowdrift our way; a million flakes dancing just beyond the glass. you’re here. we’re warm. we’re safe. we turn back to the music.
subtle intimacy is so soft. knowing someone’s routine and slowly becoming a part of it. memorising favourite teas and soups and drink orders. good morning and good night texts and messy paragraphs of love written half asleep. nicknames only you know. just small things that say “look how dear you are to me.”
the romance of sitting in a room with the person you love, each of you doing your own thing like reading a book or playing a game…. silent but full of love and warmth
