- It's Not About That -
It’s not about your body type. It’s not about you hair. It’s
not about how well you’ve done your make up, or what blouse you wear with which
pair of jeans. It’s not about the size of your top half relative to your mid
section. It’s not about how well you fit into your pants. It’s not about
dropping eighty pounds to look like some photoshopped model in the magazine.
It’s not about your arms, and if they swing side to side or not. It’s not about
the sunglasses, the bracelets, your earrings or headbands. It’s not about the
low cut, backless dress that barley covers your pelvis. It’s not about the
three hours you might spend getting ready to go to school, or work or the club.
It’s not about Botox and silicon and lipo. It’s not about lifts, and tucks, and
crimps, and pins and lasers.
It might begin with a coy
smile, and an alluring gaze. It might begin as we pass and smell something
sweet on the zephyr flowing in your wake. But that’s not what it’s really about
either.
It’s what comes after hello.
The women I’ve truly fallen in love
with, the ones that have broken my heart into a thousand splinters, the ones
I’ve written sonnets, poems, songs, and stories about and for, the ones who will
always hold a piece of my heart, a sliver of my being, those are the ones who had
what it’s about. It’s the way they hold my attention when they tell a story.
It’s the way my breath catches as their hand grazes mine. It’s the ease of
conversation. It’s about feeling comfortable with someone that the darkest
parts of my soul see the light of day. It’s about feeling your spirit
resonating, and undulating with theirs as you enter the same room. It’s about
the nightly dreams that comfort during the darkest times of your life, being superseded
by the whisper of their voice. It’s about being completely, and unashamedly
honest, and never fearing ridicule or mockery. It’s about having a fight, but
not stopping until it’s worked out. It’s about that burning in your chest, and
the tingle on your skin, when you just hold each other. It’s about losing
yourself, your physical existence, as you lay there, with only the sound of
their breath on your mind.
It’s about bonding so utterly and
completely with someone, that when it ends it cuts so deep that you believe
that the hole can never be fixed. It’s about knowing what you had was real, and
not some superficial, entertainment fed fling. It’s about realizing that they
may not have been perfect, but they were prefect for you. So you cry out in
pain for a while. You ache, and hurt, and burn. And one day that gash has healed.
But you know your heart has lost something forever. And you wait. You wait for
the one. The one that can make your soul sing again. The one that makes your
heart whole again. The one that makes your breath catch again. The one with
whom it’s not about making love.
It’s about being in love.
