When you've been emotionally crushed, ground into fine powder, and your sense of self scattered like ashes, the resurrection is all the sweeter—the return of love, astonishing.
I want every day with her to pass at a belly-creep. At the same time I'm eager to watch the days accumulate; a future stitching together, one eternal moment at a time. I am helplessly entranced by her, comforted, put at ease, both grounded and catalyzed. Her patterns of energy rest and flow river-like. The sheer dynamic range of everything she is and knows rivals ten thousand jigsaw-puzzle nights. She invites invigoration; she invites calm and concentration.
I sing praise for things unimagined. For things that figure themselves out. For things altogether beautiful and right.
She asks me, Did I ever see myself with a trans woman? And I did not.
But how much of anything that I've lived was premeditated? At any given time I saw myself residing in one of two states: loving and alone.
And how can I help but be entwined in the former when she is in my life? When the sun breaks through the clouds and deepens the contrast of a previously flattened outlook? When every day is saturated by the slow shift of delicious time in her presence, holding her in my arms, laughing and soaking up the new brightness? How, when I am utterly enraptured by her gentle kindness, her ferocity, her delicacy, her gleaming brilliance? How when the bloom is entirely unanticipated and I am taken unaware?