We talk about intimacy as if it’s only just a pair of lovers held close, a tangle of sheets, an exhale of passion.
But what of the intimacy born of being seen, known, loved.
A secret shared and remembered.
A dream shared and remembered.
A laugh shared and remembered.
A hand squeezed tight as you say goodbye.
A leaned down and pulled up hug, despite you sitting in your own filth.
Knowing each other’s families, asking after each by name
A voice whispering—I feel that way too.
A voice whispering—I could tell that hurt.
A voice whispering—I’m not going anywhere.
The one letting yourself be seen whether you’ve won or lost, failed or triumphed.
Asking again, “how are you really?”
A sobbing call in the middle of the night, a rushed drive, “I’m coming, I’ll be there soon.”
One withstanding time and change and fights and distance, staying even when it feels like too much to bear.
And one that will sit in the night with you, pointing to the stars and the moon. Unafraid of the dark.
Unafraid of the dark in you.