Breathing

You're there, in my head.  Not in a way that I'm thinking of you all the time, but as a sort of consciousness that exists.  I could go all Neruda and say I love you without knowing how or when or from where, because I could not say it's been nine months since I felt it.  It wasn't a feeling I fell into all of a sudden.  It was gradual, not in leaps and bounds, but continuous and steady like the passage of time or the way day breaks.

It was those little things and gestures, the assurances and even the cheeses that go with them, that made me feel like I'm standing on firmer ground.  I have my doubts, because who knows if I'm walking myself into a quicksand or, as most relationships of our nature tend to go, shifting sands that change with every wind and wave.  But you're all over my head and maybe my heart and for the meantime it feels good, for the meantime I could live with this feeling, for the meantime I am sure what I feel for you.  Certain enough that falling (in love) feels like flying and loving (you) is as natural as breathing.  Without which life, my life, is impossible.