I sigh.

I make a little sound. It’s something like a sigh or a tiny moan.

It’s like those tiny sweet sounds babies make when they are sleeping.

It’s an automatic, accidental sound. I think of her and I hear the sound coming out of my mouth. The breath coming out of my nose.

The blood rushing through my veins.

My cells are awake. My body is alive.

I am alive. Again.

I wear a stupid grin.

But I don’t feel stupid.

I feel special. I feel loved. I feel seen. I feel heard. I feel.

I feel.

She is standing near the starting line at a race. And I feel so much.

So many things. Tears are in my eyes.

This woman. This woman who loves me enough to stand near the starting line at a race.

She carried my bike for me and I let her.

She is there to show me that she loves me.

To love me.

The verb love. Not the word love.

And I am overwhelmed by it. I am washed over by it.

Not drowning. Just floating. And there are so many tears that I am blind for the first mile of the race.

Not scary tears. Not pain.

Not pain at all.

Just comfort and sweetness and passion.

There she is again after six hours. At the finish line, 70 miles later. She’s waiting for me. She’s cheering for me. She’s there for me. Just for me.

And the funniest part (which only makes sense if you understand how much energy I have devoted to pushing love away) is that I want her there. I am so happy to see her there.

I want her so much.

I like every single moment we spend together and I want more of it. So much more of it. I like to peel the layers to see what I find. I like the opening of my spirit. I like watching her open. Every nook of her just gets better.

I like the feeling of loving her.

I feel so very grateful to love her.

She is sitting on the couch near me. We aren’t in a hurry. We don’t have any plans. We don’t care. We don’t care about anything. We don’t need anything.

Except food every so often.

Silly girl. Sweet girl.

Pretty girl. Smart girl.

Woman.

PERFECTLY FORMED WOMAN OF MINE.

When she goes away I am not relieved. I am not desperate to get her away from me so I can be alone again. I close my eyes and I whisper her name and I make the sound again.

The sound of love. The peaceful, beautiful, comforting, sound of love.

Of being in love.

Of believing in love.

I want to be so very careful with my precious love. I don’t want to fuck it up.

The treasure of it.

Lovely love. I am not even rolling my eyes when I type that.

I am grinning. Like a fool. A fool in love.

I dream of our future. I dream of all the things we will do and the places we will go and the feelings we will feel. The good ones and the bad ones.

I get scared sometimes and I question and she answers my questions and we talk about it.

We touch about it. Hold about it.

We unwrap our fears and we examine them together and we figure it out.

I like having her around so much. I just like having her around.

Her laughter is my favorite song.

Three months.

I have known her three months. And all the jokes about lesbians circle on the edges of my mind. I am a cliche and I don’t give one single fuck about it.

Not one single fuck.

Not a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy, little fuck.

Because how I feel when I think of her is a feeling I have not felt in my life.

Not once. Nothing like this.

This bliss. This peace.

This comforting sense of rightness.

And I am filled with joy for this powerfully simple experience.

Of love.