A little twisted. I think that’s what they all say. The ones who know. But he, he knows best of all. The ferocious mood swings and snappy tempers. One minute its bliss and the next, calamity.
But he stays, and we fight, but we love. Passionately. Fiercely. There is no fathoming his absence. And it rips me up when he is gone. When we make love, his body feels like paradise, like heavy rains after a wretched famine.I am sodden in an obsession with aptness and it causes rifts sometimes damaging to my centre. Damaging to my love. Damaging to my judgement. And I am regretful for it every time. But I am hopeful still. He is my constant. He is the gravity beneath me. He is the embrace that keeps me safe. He is the centre to my whole.
He infuriates me to the ends of my wits. And has the ability to ignite within me a fire so blistering that I forget myself. But at the end of disaster, we still stand. The aftermath leaves us raw. It leaves us vulnerable. And so we find comfort in one another.
Post war finds us within our fortress. Emerging a superior bond. Adoration of a more intricate nature. A different lesson learnt. And so teaching us what makes our promise to each other indestructible.
Neither are flawless. Yet we find perfection in one another. Of body. Of mind. Of soul. We intrigue one another in ways no other could. We lift one another to heights unattained by the hapless. We hold one another as if there was no choice of exodus.
And we love, oh how we love.
By Bernice
