I talk to my friends about you. It used to be with shame till they told me it was nice hearing me sound this way.
I tell them the things about you that move me to pieces. The shards I didn’t know were sore till you touched them. (we debate if you should have) & I fell apart. The sharpness that pours hot healing into me & solders me together. The days I take to recover from this. They help me.
I explain in detail, all the disparate thoughts of you floating above my emotional debris. I use words to fish out my troubled feminism from these murky depths. They anchor me as I do & love me for loving so much.
I pour my pain at your silence, into their listening, my half-baked excuses for your behaviour, my lukewarm independence from your attentions. They hold me & remind me I can do better. And then hold me again when I say I know but I still want you.
I smile when I do the dishes & weave you into jokes they make, knowing they won’t mind, hoping they’ll do the same and they do. They open up about their vulnerabilities, their fears and we feast on this smorgasbord of our authentic tender selves, together.I write you into my literature & read you in the love poetry I picked up last week.
My friends & I talk about the ecstasy of women’s desire, the bittersweet complexity of feelings beyond words & how delicious it is to have a muse for a change, instead of being one. We smile through our shared tears & hug each other till our next reading, our next loving.