I'd let myself sink into the sound of his voice, the words lapping against my body like the ocean against the shore. A laugh, a sarcastic joke, one of the rare stories from his past, no matter what he’d say my reaction was the same. That swell of happiness warming my toes and moving upward to twirl in my stomach, the involuntary smile that came to my lips. Eyes crinkled at the corners and, "I love you" murmured against his lips or the side of his neck.

I let him get under my skin. The shrug of shoulders when I'd ask a question, the seemingly cold indifference at times. My reaction varied, slump of shoulders acceptance I wasn't going to get what I needed, or back stiffening refusal to give in until I’d gotten an answer or exhausted myself trying. I let him hurt me, anger, frustration, jealousy, the chill of non-responsiveness, anything - big or small. The slightest thing worming its way under my skin until it was larger than it should have been, too large too ignore. Confrontation, explanation, preservation, retaliation. Chin wobbling, tears streaming down the side of my face until I couldn't find the words anymore. Fight or flight, and me without the strength to do either. Just tell me you love me. Touch me and let me know it will be okay. I never stopped expecting him to read my thoughts. In the heat of battle, when he was the one who'd cut open my chest and pulled out my heart, he was still the one I wanted and needed to comfort me. A few shuddering breaths and I had the potency to turn and walk, huddling beneath the covers, clutching the pillow like a life-preserver, still wanting him to touch me, to comfort me.

Pillow soaked, breathing uneven, cheeks red and streaked, all the anger poured out against the once crisp cotton. Light footsteps, I’d turn my face into the pillow, warm hand against my back, pressure on the other side of the bed. Without thought, going with instinct and need I turned to him, face pressed against the hollow of his neck, it felt cooler than my cheeks. Breathing him in, his hand moving against my back. I never understood how it could come to this. I’d fill my lungs with him, enjoying the respite, preparing for the last skirmish. Sometimes making up was the hardest part. "I love you, I'm sorry. Forgive me, I need you." A mantra. Spreading words like salve on a burn, hoping they’d do better than a Band-Aid and a kiss on a scraped knee. These wounds run deeper, still not completely healed from the last time. Tell me it will be okay.

He would hold hurt like a weapon. Storing it up in a secret cache until it will be needed, to pierce and tear, to destroy trust and hope, things I'd damaged inadvertently. I would stretch and pull; wanting beyond what he was ready for, what he was willing to give. My need reached further than he had even begun to imagine – I saw a place far in the future and he didn't want to think past tomorrow. He left a crack into the secret door of his thoughts and I broke in, careful not to displace anything but disturbing them none the less. I scarred the wood when I jimmied the door. Wood putty and stain unable to restore it. I wanted him to deal with the change, to accept it and move on and he wanted it to be how it was. I knew, I'd learned, that there was no going back.

My impulse was to fix thing by making love, to climb into him, to join with him, feel him linked to me hip to hip, mouth to mouth. To combine ourselves body and mind, to feel him, to know him, to be as close as we can, to be one, one body – one breath. His instinct differed, unready to be intimate, taking longer to heal. "I love you" wasn't as restorative. My touch unable to compare to time. I'd take what he could offer, and not press for more. Slowly we would relax, finger interlaced without gripping, breathing returning to normal. I'd hear him laugh softly at something I said, and know for a while we would be okay.

Before I could question if it was worth it he'd look me in the eyes and smile, I’d know I would never see anything else as beautiful.