#unfinisheddrafts: Six, maybe seven dates

Here lie snapshots of a perfect weekend in August, 2018.

My gut is telling me to start at the end, hours not so much wasted away, captured in touches that created paths of sparks on our skin. People watching. Soaking up each others laughter. Committing to memory the lines on our palms. Comfortable, connected, all of it like second nature rather than something alien like I thought it maybe should have been.

There were moments when I couldn’t even focus. I’d talk and then the words would just be gone, escaping from the tip of my tongue, because your hand is on my leg drawing circles and it’s fogging up my head. The self-satisfied grin that follows, that certainty slipping its way into the set of your shoulders.

Sitting across from you, clumsy knees knocking and toes testing the water. There are lights blowing up your eyes, even though all we’ve got is a candle that keeps on going out. I joke it’s a symbol. You shut me down. Maybe you felt just how right it was already.

Kissing against the wall of your favourite pub, gatecrashing everything else you’d ever associated with the space you’ve chosen to share with me. Forgetting all the times I’d ever wondered if people would be embarrassed of me, because now you’re showing me off, opening up a door to let me in.

All the touching. Just… all of it. Just… you. Fingertips down my spine and against my stomach. Hands grabbing at hips and against chests.

Feeling invincible and unafraid, pushing forwards rather than cowering away. The shock that would pass your face as I pushed our palms together in the street, curving my other around your elbow and melting into one.

(P.S. The turtle makes complete sense. If you know, you know.)

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