Too often introspection leaves me with my head stuck so far up my...
That when I can escape from the confines of the blind maze in my head, I occupy my physical self with the enthusiasm of a two year old.
Curled against the Scorpio, cocooned underneath sheets and a comforter, I am listening to the sound of his voice. "Listening" is a relative term. I hear the sound of his voice rise and fall. I wander around in the pauses. Now and then, I raise my awareness enough to acknowledge that I'm following.
"I'm really going on," he says, "and you let me talk. I like that." He doesn't often "go on."
"I like listening to you."
I do like to listen to him. I stroke his right arm while he talks...enjoying the smooth skin under my fingers. I inhale. He has a mildly salty, male smell that I find reassuring. My fingers observe the differences of texture, from his arm to his chest to his neck. My head is resting on his chest, one of my legs is thrown across one of his. His left arm is wrapped around me.
There are no deep existential questions here. The mind is not beating against itself and for a little time, I am safe from my mind and safe from the world. Blessed be the body.
