worn

My lips were cold from letting the Zima dry on them in the crisp night air.  In fact, every tip of me was cold.  The tip of my nose, my ears, my fingers, all lacked blood flow and I did nothing to try to increase circulation as I normally do.   I let it sink in to my bones, and unafraidedly shivered as I lay there half naked in the hot tub at 2 a.m.  I didn’t feel like talking.  I didn’t feel like listening.  I felt like being buzzed, still, and perfectly silent.  Above all, I didn’t feel like thinking. 

Despite the cold, the moment was perfect in its familiarity.  The sky was blacker than I have ever seen it, and the stars brighter.  I let my vision blur as my eyes relaxed, fixed on one in particular, and stayed there in my strangely comfortable oblivion until your voice, raspy as if from lack of use that day, broke the silence.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

When you have a moment like that, you want to squeeze it tight, breathe it in, and let it permeate your mind in all its complexity.  I turned my face from him, my hand awkwardly covering my eyes, palm facing out, fingers lightly curled.  And let the knot in my stomach drift to my throat.  It’s hard to let go– when the oxygen always reaches just a little deeper into my lungs… when I’m with you.