Let’s pretend.

Let’s pretend you didn’t look at me that way, like you already knew what this was before I could decide what to do with it.

Let’s pretend my voice didn’t lift when saying your name… that tiny giveaway I can’t seem to control. That we can slide into the ‘how are yous’ and ‘how was your day’ conventions as if the connection between us isn’t unrelenting and unapologetic.

so. fucking. blatant.

You’re agreeable. Easy. Fluid, moving with the tide as long as the tide obeys you. It usually does.

So let’s pretend. Let’s talk about things that don’t matter. Things that have never mattered to anyone.

How’s work?
Did you sleep?
How was traffic heading home?

We can do that. We’re good at that. It comes naturally to you, to us. We have built entire lives out of complete bullshit. Words over coffee… decks matching company branding.
We can easily translate those superpowers into ones that keep one another at arms length
Enough to keep the fear away
The love away
The reality of it all… .that somehow you seem to be so fucking ok with.
Even though you’ve never been ok with it before. With anyone. Ever.

Interesting because unabashed vulnerability is how I stay safest.
It’s a way to stand close without having to admit I’m standing close.
I underestimated you.
My vulnerability, ability in and of itself to speak without forgiveness, doesn’t sway you, touch you, or even surprise you.
As foreign as it might be for you. My presence…
you’re solid.
and
prepared.
Especially when it comes to the things you want.

And it’s fucking terrifying.
It makes me want to test you, shake the tree and see if anything falls. Not because I want you to fall. Because I need to know if you can.

Me, I don’t have branches. I have roots. Deep ones. Buried ones. Protected by a lot of earth that isn’t coming up for air just because you asked.
And still, fuck. I like you.
I hate that. Only because I know what’s coming…

And in one way or another
eventually
Something will have to give.
It will probably be me.

But for now, we keep moving. Because I don’t think we have a choice. Because you’re too good and I want you too bad.

It’s your eyes. The corners of them, when you look away, left and down, after I say something that pulls the truth closer than you meant to let it come. You don’t always answer with words. You answer with your face. With your body. With that split second of something raw.

And I see it.
I see the polite conventions tearing you apart. Surprising you. Refreshing. I call them out. You grin. You relent. Conventions don’t belong here, even when we try to force them, because there’s too much underneath, too organic to keep dressed up.

Which is why the movies scare me.

Normal, sweet and simple have no place here. With fire comes heat… only heat.
And you will be dragged into it, if you decide to stay.
So
Come over. Don’t sit next to me. Get behind me. Under me. Over me. Take me… not my hand.
As if desire can outrun vulnerability.
As if I can control the ending if I set the speed.

There’s no room for interpretation. There’s only
movement,
surprises,
raw unabashed inevitability
danger. The fun kind.

And the terror that comes with admitting this is real is covered in blankets and moans.

So let’s pretend.

Let’s pretend love isn’t inevitable.
Let’s pretend today, and maybe tomorrow,

that we don’t matter to one another.

Or to ourselves.
Or at all. Because inside that pretending, I can breathe.

And maybe, one day, I’ll be able to acknowledge the inevitable and real.
The reality that is faced when the lights are on.
And in that reality, acknowledgement… in that moment, I will be able to
Hold your hand.

At the movies.