Transient

A special sort of grip in my chest. Slow, steady pacing- nothing too fast, for sure. 

Hands that don't quite seem to hold right ( "he's very much taller than you are, dear.")

Noses that bump into cheeks ( "his nose is rather large, isn't it dear?")

And soft kisses placed at the top of heads ( "But he's perfect in this respect, dear.")

"And for more than that!" I retort, face pulled to a frown, lips taut. "There's much more than that, I think." Because of course there's no such thing as perfect, but we find perfection in things anyway. 

Because there are these awkward moments, that define us. And separate the way we are. But we coexist. And we are. 

I am the storm, you, the sea. 

I am noisy, and you are not. And you barely have anything to say at all, a lot of times. I talk a lot, and I could think of a million things to talk about. 

What separates us is what keeps us so desperate to see each other. To hear each other daily, to receive texts that go from good morning to good night. They can be sparse, I know, but there is a craving, an urge, an epiphany to have that sense that "Ah." 

You're around.