Seeing him was like watching the heavenly bodies move. He looked at me and I saw the stars that lit up the night sky. Moments between us lasted infinitely. Like the first kiss surrounded by autumn-stricken flora, or the first night when he held me so tight I was content with the idea of never breathing again.
Intimacy isn’t easy. It leeches onto your soul without acknowledging the other senses, satiating them with a kind of calmness that’s like drifting on an ocean untouched by turbulence.
I remember his hands, how they gripped my waist and ran through my hair. I remember his eyes, searching me so warmly. He was like wine, running through all the parts of me so quickly, and leaving me floating, entranced.
I remember waking up beside him, seeing him sleep so simply, his arm draped over me and the subtle remnants of a smile on his face. I remember him waking up, and I remember how quickly he kissed me, like it was a habit, like it was breathing.
I remember reading the myth of Psyche and Eros and knowing it was ours, fearing that if I woke up too quickly or admired him too closely, he’d leave. I remember how he’d kiss my forehead softly before, during and after. Kisses so delicate they grew gardens in my chest. ❦
This article is part of Intimacy, The Ubyssey’s 2022 sex issue. You can read more here.