It’s easy enough to find a lover. There’s no shortage of willing participants the world over: men and women who desire nothing more than the moment, that first touch, the way two bodies collide like dying stars and create whole new galaxies.
It’s such a simple thing to fall into somebody’s arms, to throw yourself into their bed, to learn the language of fingertips on the skin. In sex, we can find ourselves or lose ourselves, long moments of free-floating bliss where nothing else exists except mouths and hands and the sounds clothes make as they shed.
But the mere act of being with someone isn’t enough to satisfy me. Intimacy goes beyond sharing my body; I want to share my soul.
I want to ugly cry in the safe space of his arms and still feel beautiful.
I want to roll out of bed in the morning and have him pull me back in, morning breath kisses and messed up hair, and maybe he’ll hold me a little longer or maybe he’ll tickle me until I heave myself up and head for the shower. But either way, the warmth of it will stay with me all day.
I want to go to baseball games, bright lights under summer skies, overpriced beer, and souvenirs, and watch the way his eyes crinkle around the corners when he smiles at me and grabs my hand every time our team hits a home run.
I want to travel to exotic locations with him, hear the way he tries to pronounce words that are foreign in his mouth, try delicious and disgusting foods, watch sunsets on seas half a world away.
I want to go no further than our couch, a weekend of nothing but Netflix and pajamas, snacks and no dinner, bingeing on bad TV and really amazing TV, painting my nails while he picks up my feet and puts them in his lap.
I want to watch him sleep in the faint light that dissects our room at night, and stun myself with the revelation that I miss him when he’s not awake.
I want to lay awake in the early morning hours, shoulder to shoulder, legs folded around each other like an anchor, and talk about everything and nothing, the time my parents sent me flowers when I won the sixth grade spelling bee, and how he felt when his dad left home for the last time.
I want to accidentally burn dinner and have to go out for emergency pizza at 9 PM, a little bit drunk on the moonlight and each other, sitting on the same side of the booth because across the table feels like far too much distance between us.
I want to write lipstick notes on the mirror, “I love you” etched in steam, find notes in my jacket pocket with private jokes that make me blush, make me remember, make me anxious to hurry home.
I want to meet his family, and have him meet mine, and love them or hate them or mostly just tolerate them, or just make a family of our own.
I want to laugh with him and cry with him, push him away and then press myself against him until we can barely breathe, celebrate the good times and grieve the hard ones, talk it out and storm out in angry silence, go to bed hurting and wake up forgiving.
I’m not looking for just a lover. I want someone that’s my person, my lobster, my mister. I want to fall in love, be in love, and stay in love with my best friend.
This article (I Don’t Want A Lover, I Want A Best Friend) was published on Thinking Humanity and it is republished here under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License
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