5 Years:

It feels like it has been a moment, a second, a lifetime, an eternity. It has been absolutely wonderful, to the point of exploding joy, and unbelievably awful, to the depths of darkness and depression.

There aren't enough words.

It is too much; it is not enough. It is nothing at all; it is everything.

There is so much you already know. There is so much I still long to tell you.

The phrases get stuck in my throat : after awhile they all sound like Hallmark cards or bad Lifetime movie scripts. It is impossible for me to put my feelings for you into anything that tries to define them.

I love you. I trust that it is enough.

Happy 5 year anniversary to us!

(10:26:33 pm)

That moment when they walk out the door with the bit, when the freedom comes. Feeling frisky and uninhibited. Stripping off my clothes, him doing the same. The doorbell ringing, "C forgot her purse," hiding in the bathroom and squealing as he catches a glimpse of my bra and panties. Watching my husband shut the door, waiting impatiently for him to return and pounce. We roll in the covers. We smile. We feel like impetuous teenagers with their parents away.

A luxurious nap in blue flannel sheets: soft as a tee-shirt, warm as a hug. Both of us naked, him curled around me, his unshaven face scratchy on my shoulder. The couple making out in the ADT car in the darkened parking lot. The way the door kept slamming into the car parked next to it as he squeezed the small of her back. Making eyes in the darkness. His hand on my thigh. My barrette popping as I pushed back my head. The silly, schoolgirl way I giggled because I was self-conscious.

The ibooks. A tantalizing tangerine vision. The seductiveness of the keys. The spaciousness of the screen, the form. Feeling technolust quiver through my body; wiping drool off the corners of my mouth. Big dreams. Big ideas. One for me, one for him. And one for the Bit, someday.

The little market, full of people: rude, rushing past, on their way to something more important, out of time. Admiring the fruit and vegetables at the stand outside. Walking straight for the refrigerated section. Picking out a large container of sun-dried tomato, pesto torta and grabbing a fresh baguette off the bread aisle. Deciding on anniversary chocolate. Extra large Belgian chocolate. With almonds.

An isolated table. the early bird dinner hour. lobster tail. lemon wedges. a small bowl of butter. cheddar cheese biscuits, so soft they melt in my mouth. Licking my lips to absorb all of the flavor. Sensual glances from across the table, the joy of leftover cuisine art. The fun of shocking the waitress with our phallic concoctions.

The rustle of pages. The silence of the poetry section. The sensuality of a blue suede padded journal with handmade paper leaves. My first gel pens. They way they feel slipping across the pages of the book. The burst of colour. The twitch in my fingers as I recalled writing by hand. An impulsive rush with the morning pages journal. Inspired to start taking my time. My Time. Giving myself permission to have a time of my own.

Tangy lemoncake and tazo tea while sprawling in brown velvet wingback chairs. Doodling on blank notebook paper with brilliant silky soft pens, the fluid motion rushing past the emptiness, filling it up.