speaking of home

During a conversation I had recently about new openness to relationships, while I was explaining how I never used to see myself as a ltr kind of girl, I realized that while love is a very common and strong emotion for me, I don't trust it as something that lasts forever. And that's ok, I don't think we should. And that's why after seven years of being with Jorge, I am overwhelmed( in a good way) when I feel so completely in love still. I need to stay in the 'it's happening' pool and not the 'it happened' one. I want to be surprised by love, and experience it, not just arrive there. Does this make sense?

I remember walking down Sabado Tarde on my way to campus listening to this song often and practically weeping, it was a way I hadn't cried before because it was my first time falling in love. It moved beyond butterflies in the stomach to full heart feeling the warmth through my body, smiling as big as my face would let me, all the time. It went to where happiness turns into too much emotion to handle ( again, in a good way).



This is a poem I wrote in those first few years:

The Body Knows

It’s not very often you run into people with nice elbows
or ones that stick out so far, like yours
fractured from tricks on the cement of parking lots.
Each one cracks-loud when you run into table corners
and almost cry because the funny in your bones is so big.

I look at you
to make sure you are real,
wrinkled jeans
sleeping eyes
and you are instantly tangible
as peeled orange skin
stinging my cut fingers.

At night when we compare scars
and my hernia doesn't compare to your broken collarbone
and my smile lines are longer than yours
and we both sound with an ugly cough
I know our bodies will move together easily
to a new city, north of everything we already know.



During our last long road trip a few weeks ago, Edward Sharpe's Home played, and it hit me again, a pang of superemotion, I cried from that place of surprisedbythesefeelings.