things like this cannot be rushed

i have the sense that things like this cannot be rushed.

i do not want to go charging like a bull in a china shop, stomping blindly around and destroying this beautiful, delicate, still-fragile thing that is building between us. in small touches, lingering looks and smiles, and in the silences that form around like a watchful, gentle third party.

i relish in the yearning and the sweet, honey smelling air. it feels inevitably fleeting, and i intend to savour every moment.

the very building of it is delicious in another way—tasteful as i lie awake smiling to myself over tiny things like a particular slant to your eyes or the feeling of your hand in the small of my back as we cross the street. my being perched in your lap. so many long ago domestic mornings, lazing around in quiet, sunny companionship.

shared soft laughter which turns into something soft and hazy, and the edge of sleep which sneaks into the corners of our eyes. 

fingers that tangle in the space between our knees. my nose in your hair, your head in my shoulder.

its all beyond personal, somehow. infinitely intimate. almost profound.

the very slowness of it all is a part of it; indicative of the size of what its all leading to.

the stretched out seconds as i watch the glow of dying fire lighting your face in golds and reds and flickering shadows that remind me of what you are.

the breathless blue of winter afternoons, pink tinges on your cheeks and fingers. rose in the dying sun.

the universe of your eyes, an intricate puzzle of blue nuances, deep in the soft light of dawn. 

in moments like these, something unknown swells up deep in my chest, making me feel like my body is both too big and yet not big enough. making my heart feel like ive just taken it out from underneath my breatbone and pushed it back in with new weight.

the whisper of you next to me. my finger along your solar plexus. wonderings of whether i am too close or too far. whether to speak to you or to listen. 

from here is born an old, familiar fear. the fear of saying the wrong things, moving the wrong way, pushing forward when all the signs have said to fall back. of crossing a boundary, finding a limit before i even know it is there. the fear that insits and persits. the fear that scolds.

and though you are here with me and the fear is wrong, i understand the fragility of it all. i hold it in my palms, precious, and with a fear i might crush it.