I learn every lesson the hard way. This is one: I need to be claimed to live freely. I need to declare that your love makes me want to stay alive. I need to loudly celebrate your shining hair and the brilliant expression of your fingers. I want to tell everyone. I don’t want to worry you will hear of my obsession and deflect. Claim me. 

Pain is pretending that being touched is merely a welcome supplement to life: the labor, the industry, the cooking and sorting and bathing and walking the dog. It is everything I want, to be held, to have breath on my ears. I want to scream, “Thank you! Thank you for this touch!” This kiss, this warmth, these words. Yes, please twist your legs between mine. Closer! I hate when you leave!

My heart cannot leap if you will not widen your vessel. Gape larger. Be brave and warm your shame to love. Tell it the truth about how you are mine, and I am yours. Tell it about the hot blush of our tongues, about the strands of our saliva weaving delicate webs. Confess!

The sunshine, the warm, heavy drapery that water is on the body in the ocean and in our silly little tubs. The way love is wine and opens us to unfolding and freedom. We know it is all so right. It is time to wind our ribbons around the May pole. It is time to rejoice.