The mirror fogs over the glimpses I'd steal away. Standing there, glancing at her elbow, the radiant glow of light leaves my bathroom between the steam, a tumbling waterfall between the canyons of door and door frame. I hear it cascading, and she says something over the radio that I cannot interpret. I respond in kind, a laugh, or a passing motion that is understood between ancient lovers, lost in the comfort of our voices regardless of their meaning.
Language, the once robust voice of a civilization since deteriorated to the dying gasp of a tuberculosis patient, occupies a different level of understanding within lovers. Language can never describe reality, as language may only lend itself to additional words and not to anything real. It is a deliciously destructive idea of words maintaining no composure; withstanding the meaning and context of the composers orchestrating the dance macabre. While language conveys understanding upon the sole arbitrator of its Creator, images perfect a language easily translatable by our hearts, which is a place where words no longer require meaning and often fall short.
Were you to ask her if I heard, she would deny singing along with the radio. Were she to ask if I had heard, I would deny my adoration by subtlety tucking it beneath the comfort of her ideal perfection. Yet, we communicate a language so foreign and pure, King Solomon spent eight chapters stumbling over divine inspirations misconstrued for thousands of years across thousands of seditious tongues.
When I retire beneath our covers, I clasp her tightly and breathe in the captive essence that's enthralled me. I wrap my arms around her, frail roots starving to be ground, only to find tomorrow's strength held firmly within her slumber. She is the soil and foundation keeping me upright. She is fertilizer keeping me alive. Without her, my branches droop to the ground with no aspiration of heaven. She is my blue sky. She is my sunshine, my only sunshine, and she makes me happy when skies are grey.
Yet, her power is delicate and fragile. The moments I capture in the mirror speak of beauty, and not strength. They speak of vulnerability without regard to poise and purpose. They lend themselves to weakness by her nakedness as she spreads lotion across her shaved legs. So with this useless language, I cast aside its meaning and pray a thankful prayer for the ability to see my Goddess in such a natural state. Had wings existed on her back, they would've been spread wide, dispelling once and for all the myths of angels. These moments are short lived, often neglected, and far too often written aside as fleeting. However, I am stealing this one.
This one is mine.
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