fragment two: intimacy, a question

is it just me?

To whom it may concern,

Do you feel like this with other people?

I know it’s late; I’m sorry to inconvenience you. You’re entitled to your time and even more so to your privacy, but I’d regret not making this one request of you. It’s just, the other night — well I catch myself thinking about it, and then wondering, so to ward off worry, I thought the mature thing would be to ask what you think.

When we were laying there, just the two of us, well, I thought it was special. Different from what I’ve dealt with before, there was this ease.

A pocket of time slowed down. Things calmed. My loneliness was banished, and you made me forget that it couldn’t go on forever.

Oddities of getting to know one another — our mutual hobbies and misplaced jokes and unanswered questions, were lost in your quiet snore. Trappings of a windswept, whirlwind romance weren’t there, but there was something else, softer than a consuming blaze of passion I’ve seen so many times on the silver screen.

When the thrum of lust quieted, intimacy remained. I think that’s what it was. In the past, I’ve felt blank, after. Like a hollow part of myself yawned open, expecting something in return for the closeness I’d given. Vacuums aren’t known to be forgiving, unfortunately, so every other time this inky emptiness swallowed my contentment.

But with you, that other night, it was new, and felt more complete in some way. When you wrapped me up, it was like you didn’t want anything back, like what we had was enough.

You can understand the appeal, I hope.

So for my question, is it like this for you all the time? Is it some gift you have, to offer up peace and belonging with a touch? From my point of view, you seemed to be the source, radiating comfort into the air we shared.

Or was I part of it too? If it’s not like this all the time, in your experience I mean, then is it something we shared, something special because we were both a part of it? Part of me hopes that’s right, but I have no other reference point to bounce off of, so you understand the pickle I’m in. I need your help.

If it’s not too much trouble, just let me know if you feel this with other people, or if you’ve felt it before. It’s ok, honestly, either way. I just want to protect myself. I’m afraid that if I sink any further into this feeling, I’ll lose sight of the bottom, lose my footing.

Rejection I can handle, but you have to agree that it seems cruel for you to offer me this gift only to snatch it away. And I’d hate to think myself a naïve fool, taken in by a sweet and gentle embrace.

Oh, I should also note that apart from the dour tone I may be broadcasting, I don’t mean to seem dissatisfied with my life as is. Despite the evidence of this letter, I am actually quite happy, and I didn’t need this to feel whole and cared for.

I may be alone, but I hardly ever feel lonely.

Still, I’m left with some concern, justified, I think, that if the former is inverted, the latter is bound to come up, some muted night down the road. Seemingly in a couple, loneliness and alone-ness are coupled together — an emotional tide that sweeps in and out, vowing to lift you and to crush you. But you can’t be left alone if no one was there in the first place.

It might just be a fact of fate, apart as we are in this world, that as we grow to care more deeply, we have all the more to lose. I can’t promise that I’d be any good at that, so I’ll practice.

That’s where you come in, just — give me this chance to keep myself safe, for the time being at least.

Any clarity you have to offer on this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Signed,

Sealed Delivered