How does your neck fit so perfectly in mine? Too perfectly. A perfect I couldn’t, didn’t know how to trust.
A neck that felt made for the crook in mine and breaths that felt more intimate than a forehead kiss. Breaths that meant you felt safe, in the crook of my neck, adjacent to my arms, nestled behind me.
A hand just small enough to hold, but big enough to grip me up. Be felt. Always.
A wingspan long enough to envelope me and lengthy enough to cover me when it rains.
That basement was my safe place. Shelter. Get-a-way from it all. Where breadth met depth and I felt seen, heard, valued, and respected in every direction.
That, I did stay in his track pants all day and reflect on how I got this lucky kind of like. Difference being, he was there too. Nestled, in the crook of my neck. Legs entangled. Eyelashes fluttering. Breathing deep. Intertwined. No one daring to move.
Both of us unsure of what, if anything comes next and wondering how the hell things escalated so quickly. Yet safe. And unwilling to leave the world we created together – in the crook of my neck.
An ode to whole days spent in basements.