Admitting things to myself.

Admitting things to myself.

I'm not going to write about it here.  Because these are notes for me.  I don't need to take notes on someone I'm happy to learn things about.  When I get down to the most vulnerable of feelings about it, I want to be his.  And I want him to be mine.  Not the physical.  That is simply a bonus (I think less of people who use the phrase “added bonus”. Re: “liking your own Facebook status”).  What makes me feel the most vulnerable is the feeling that I want to open things to him and tell him about the world when I feel it.  And I do.  And I just speak and feel and drink in the truth like chamomile tea and get nervous at the same time in those moments we are together.  These are the last things I'm writing about him because I'm going to learn to store it in here [I am pointing to my head].  A memory of slow dancing to Stevie Nicks’ Bella Donna makes me want him to try my mother’s collard greens.  Does any of that make sense?  Nikki Giovanni would ask if this were a silly poem… in that way she says “poem” reminding me of her, at times adorable, Tennessee accent.   And I would remind you that this is not a poem.  These are notes for me.  Notes for me to remember.  And these are the last things I'm going to write about here.  I am eating lunch the day after Thanksgiving, getting insulted by my family in the only way they know how, and thinking about when I’ll get back to see him.  And what song will be playing.  And how I found Sarah’s “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” in a pile on my music room floor.  It’s scratchy, but it still sounds the same.  All of this is good.  This moment is wonderful.  And when I get down to the most vulnerable of feelings about it, I want to be his.  And I want this to be mine.