You shrug into your seat on the left side of the couch, cushion tucked under your arm and the television on softly in the background. I watch the softness in which your body folds, relaxes. In the pale beige of the tired material, your sun-kissed skin makes a sea of neutrals and pinks. I long to fit myself into the crevice between your arm and the leftmost pillow, to feel the warmth of your chest, a reminder that in people we find comfort. In people we find homes.
Life, lately, has been in juxtaposition. My heart feels steady, but my dreams are running wild—ideas scrawled on paper napkins sprinkled throughout the room, to-do lists with feathered edges, notes and pens and scattered thoughts doing mazes in my head.
And then, every time I look at you, I remember I don’t have to be running so fast. I will get there. But right now, this moment, with you is what I have.
Right now, the space between us is merely physical, soon erased as I nuzzle my chin against your shoulder. Right now, there are no words left unspoken, or emotions hidden behind quiet faces, begging to be set free. Right now, we are in harmony, in rhythm, and I love the way your heartbeat feels so strong when I’m leaning on your chest.
We are comfortable. And I’m learning to be okay with this. I’m learning that comfort is not wrong because it does not have to imply stillness, or stagnancy, or settling. Comfortable, I’ve learned, is synonymous with secure. And to know that where we are is healthy, is safe—that’s more than I can ask for.
With you, I’m slowly redefining how I understand love.
And yet, I know that bliss is not endless. I know that we live in an impermanent world, one that’s fast and fleeting. I know there will be moments where things fall apart, fall together, where we won’t settle into the spaces between one another’s arms so easily.
But I will not be afraid of that temporary nature. I will not let it get the best of me, of us. I will embrace every beautiful moment and difficult moment just the same.
I want every uncomfortable moment with you. I want the raised voices, the shrugged shoulders. I want the nights we sit on opposite ends of that little beige couch, arms crossed in anger. I want the arguments and things we don’t agree on. I want the moments where we don’t quite know where to go next because everything has changed, and so we must fight for one another all over again.
I want the places that hurt. I want the pain, the heartache, the frustration as we grow apart and have to learn how to find one another again, how to start over, to begin. I want the times we aren’t so perfect, aren’t settling easily into patterns, or feeling quite at home.
This love is not toxic, not unhealthy, not wrong. But it is not perfect, either. And never will be. And so I don’t just want the happy moments, the nights where we fall into one another with ease. The mornings we laugh, steal the covers from one another’s bodies, walk to dinner hand-in-hand.
I want the uncomfortable, the frustrating, the tense, the confusing. I want to fall into one another, look each other in the eyes, and even when we’re fighting say, “I don’t know what to do or say, but I love you. And I hope that’s enough.”
And it is, it is, it is.
Our love is imperfect and enough.