I.I turned up wanting to be elegant. A soft place to land. Sanctuary. I wanted to keep my questions to myself, to take what was offered, and ask for nothing more. I wanted to hold it lightly, to be easy as a summer’s breeze. I thought of him as a hummingbird. No one can possess such a thing. We just let them flit in and out, watch in awe as they sip the nectar we offer, and hold that jewelled moment in our heart’s forever. Right? We hope they’ll come again, but we don’t set our clocks by them. When they are here, we stop. We drink deeply alongside them. When they leave, we get on with our lives.

II. My past experiences with love have trained me up to expect very little. I had begun to think of myself as a kind of drive through, where my loves could pull in, fill up, and drive away again. I got filled up elsewhere. Through my friendships, or my spiritual practice. Through music or art or writing. I didn’t know it was possible for there to be anything like an equal exchange.

III. Having discovered that there is such a thing, and having experienced it for just a little over half a year now, I have become very possessive of it. I can’t imagine going back a life in which I allow myself to serve as fuel, as a prop, or as something that can be easily shelved, and taken down only when it suits someone else’s agenda. I can’t imagine being in a relationship in which I have no expectations. That seems like bullshit to me now. Like a raw deal. Like something I can’t believe I *ever* signed up for.

IV. When the former is all you’ve ever known, the latter comes in like a wildfire and burns down everything you thought you knew about love. It is impossible to be elegant in the midst of a wildfire. I have not been elegant or easy. I have been full on. I have grappled. I have asked all the questions. I have expressed what my needs are. I have asked for more.

V. He meets me there.

VI. For me, possession isn’t about ownership. It is about how he has taken up residence in me, how he pours himself into me so that there is no room for anymore of this kind of love. I used to think that the only way I’d ever get my needs met was if I had multiple partners willing to patchwork up some kind of solution to the problem of my too muchness. No, man. That was not the answer. The answer was finding someone who filled me up to capacity and then some, and now I know that exists. This means that non-monogamy – something I have wholeheartedly embraced and believed in my whole life – is no longer an option for me. The thought of sharing my body with someone else makes me cringe. The thought of redirecting any of what I feel toward anyone else just doesn’t work. I can’t.

VII. This doesn’t mean that I’m not sovereign in my own life. I am, absolutely. I can withdraw my devotion at any time. I have the right to change my mind. I just don’t see it happening, though, because my devotion is met with devotion. My love is met with love. My questions are met with answers. My needs are met with care.

When people approach me with interest, (have you noticed how when you are in love, you get more offers than ever before?) my response is pretty much “N’aw, honey. I’m good. All sorted. Thank you, though.”

VIII. His are the only hands I want on my body. His is the only mouth I want on my mouth.

IX. Something about how he invokes the best in me. Something about how his showing up sent me flying into an accelerated evolution, threw me into a healing crisis as though my whole body knew that this was it, and we had to do our work now, because we have living to do, and *waves at all of that back there* was in our fucking way. Something about wanting to show up as my whole self, because he deserves that, and I deserve to enjoy him as my whole self. Something about how he brings a warrior energy with him that makes me feel encircled in safety, makes me feel safe to be a woman. Something about how at home I feel in my own skin, how embodiment is easy with him. Something about how anchored I am in the moment when his eyes are on my face.

X. This song, today, because reasons.

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