My darling hummingbird, come sit close to me like the one time you did before. Let me be near you, to your light and inspiration, to your dedication and quiet, sensible passion. Look into my eyes the way you have a few sweet times, let yourself glance at my hands for a second too long as I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
I’m uncertain in your presence, my stomach flips and I practice what I’ll say to you, what I’ll write to you. I imagine the words I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to tell you. I don’t know if you want to hear them, if they’d be welcome, if you’d be shocked. I wonder at times if you know they’re on the tip of my tongue. I’ve gone out of my way to tell you I don’t want to be called femme, to say I feel like crying when people falsely assume what my identity is. I don’t tell you that you are perfect to me, that I don’t know if you want to be called or like to be called butch.
I will do anything to you, for you. I’ll be on top and I also crave you on top of me. Let me shock you with what I know how to do. I saw you the other day and envisioned kneeling in front of you, holding your hips strongly but gently, my lips attached to your hips and the barely-there rise of your stomach. If you sit down on the table behind you, your legs will wrap perfectly over my shoulders.
I’ve come to care for you, wanting to know if you rub your eyes or nuzzle your face into a pile of pillows when you wake up. Do you fall asleep reading, the light left on? Or, maybe you take a last sip of lukewarm tea and shut the lamp off. I’ve found the dearest of love songs in the small mountain of books next to my bed. I stumble upon words, phrases and passages, pausing to imagine brushing your face with my fingertips. I pause to think of kissing your eyelids, holding your head against my chest, laying you back onto your bed, knowing you feel safe.
I dreamt of you last night, waking with a smile on my face. In my dream you were shocked to learn of my feelings for you. Your voice turned quiet as I held my breath and waited to hear why we could never be. Instead you leaned forward slowly and kissed my mouth, holding my face in your small hands. I pulled you close to my body and felt your heart beat quickly against by breasts. There is no desperation or rush in my daytime or sleeping fantasies, an improbable change within my impatient spirit.
It’s rare that my thoughts go further. My feelings are not chaste, but humble in expectation. When you are close by, when you step into the room, when I listen to your voice grow animated, then calm, then pause carefully, I am filled. The one time my body ached to reach for you, my mind had to recite the instruction not to lean forward and stroke the back of your neck and ears. Your tiny silver earrings pierced your skin like iridescent pearls nested on a golden oyster.
Right in this moment I am breathing deeply and writing slowly. I am learning to pause and wait, to watch the sunset as the light moves left to right across my arms and torso. I don’t want my feelings for you to sound invasive. I hope you are loved deeply, made love to often and tenderly, held firmly when you ache for more. I hope if you have any idea I dream of my legs entwined with yours, you smile and maybe blush. For the time being I am sometimes close by, my ears and eyes and heart open. You are brilliant and blooming, lit from within more and more, week after week.