Intimacy

I am at my most intimate self when I am in silence.

And as I write this, my first thought applies to memories of lying beside my lover. But as I consider it longer, it could apply to myself. When I am in silence, in my deepest meditation perhaps then, when I witness the monkey jumping at the speed of light from one thought to the next. That awareness is when I am at my most intimate. Maybe?

It’s funny how quickly I associate intimacy with sex or love, or the ideas of closeness with another. Where am I the most intimate?

Is it with you that I can lose myself?

Is it with you that I can reveal my most true self,

Is it with you where I find my most frightened self?

Is it with you in silence, through your eyes, telling me, “All is okay?”

“We are okay?”

“We will be okay?”

“You are okay?”

What will it take to tell myself that?
Who asked you anyway?

The levels of closeness in all my relationships continue to ebb, flow, build, burn, grow and reveal with new parameters of intensity with every interaction, some of which have yet to register in my conscious mind at all. All of which are based on the openness of my limited conscious mind.

My imagination is great with creating intimacy. I can blow a little air on an old box of coal and stir those embers, is that intimacy? Is it intimacy if you blow on the coals?

My brain was buff-- Her brain was faster than mine, which was too fast. Her mind made her mouth move and sound came out faster than my ear holes could take. My brain was buffering. She spoke so fucking fast and so fucking smart and built so many fucking mouse traps with trap doors and black holes and time warps, it was only when she stopped-

And I stopped-

And we stared.
In silence.
Into each other.

On the blanket...in the park...that we could feel everything in each other.