You coyly behind the door and then a smile, a full white smile but overpowered by your eyes, the green now all that can be measured, your nose and ears and lips, your forehead and chin, all but quiet neighbors. They are left to the margins. The writing, you ask, and we fall quickly into before. Do you notice how short the catching up, how immediate the continuation?
You describe the frightened little girl with a busted appendix, the scary man and of course the disbelievers, always the disbelievers. But I believe and you believe and for a couple of hours this is enough (and you know, you do know, that you can find me whenever you need believing). And then you pull from me with a vigor and compassion I haven't before experienced. Like a skilled interrogator you do not rush, do not over-stimulate (like a breezy dumping of words across my face - now sort! no matter how lovely the words: foul result) but take care to close all of the escape hatchways, all of my favored paths of flight. Breathe, you whisper, when I fight you. Breathe, like a slap, when I stay stubborn. Breathe, like a caress, a kiss, a lover's arm around the midsection. Yay! you say, and I understand your exuberance, your pleasure. And I might measure it against mine own, but imagine - me without further words. Now spent.
M Scott Peck says love is doing saying what one perceives to be in the best interest of the object of our affection. Love is not magical thinking. Love is action and difficult choices. Love is saying what we hope imagine trust is what we need to say, not what sounds good or will make the other think highly of us. Love is a wing and a prayer. It's in the mail.