Love is still strange to me.
The raindrops that caress my face in the first shower,
The familiar contours of a pencil between my fingers,
The dusty smoothness of an old book cover under sweaty palms,
They are things I’m familiar with,
Things I find comfort in.
This love is not comfortable.
Every moment awake, I feel strange.
It is always at the back of my mind,
The thought of him,
Of what we are hiding from the world.
Thoughts of my stomach tingling when I see him.
The strange need for him,
To be close to him,
To always maintain physical contact when he is next to me,
As though he is my anchor.
It is not comfortable.
And I am in love nevertheless.