Cussedness

There are sheer amounts of it at work within me. A stubborness that hates to reveal the longing ache for the moments of sharing that connect two souls together.

Hates to admit the doubt that comes from not hearing all day from the one I love. Worries that the first expressed moment will actually make it come to pass. Better to say nothing, than to say exactly, predict, set in motion the very thing you suspect.

Has my charm faded?

Perhaps so...and if I rant about it, do I lose what dignity I have left? Do I reveal the actual hurt and pain?

And somehow it always comes out. And I always regret what I've revealed. Most often I end up hurting him right back - most of the time, I think he never knew I was hurting in the first place.

And then...I really feel like an idiot.

The Art of Being Sexy

Being sexy...comes from being aware. Aware of self, aware of others...it's about allowing yourself to like the other person, I think. To make them feel genuinely good about themselves as you feel good about yourself.

It's about being okay with making a little bit of a fool of yourself for the sake of stirring passion or fire.

It's about responding to the flare of someone's else's nostrils as they catch a whiff of your essential fragrance. It's the meeting of eyes. It's the glance away. It's the confidence to see the flaws and the inherent beauty within and deciding the beauty and genuine originality of self far outweighs the flaws.

It's knowing you are worth spending time with...and making sure the other person realizes your time is valuable and you've chosen to spend some of it with them. It's about leaving before you're asked to leave.

It's the tilt of the head, unashamedly licking your fingers clean of a tasty sauce, in a manner that is both delicate and greedy at the same time.

Being sexy means you take care of yourself...taking time to get a damn mani and pedi, even when the idea is repugnant, because you know later...you'll have enjoyed the back and leg massage, even as your nails look gorgeous.

It's a low whisper, humming a song, a friendly smile, a flirty wink.

Above all it is about being interested and interesting.

Finally, sexy is about sex...inspiring someone to think about you and sex at the same time.

Do you think this covers it?

Depth

And ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
Kahlil Gibran

This has become a favorite thought to me. Not that I would be happy to be separated from loved ones, but that during those necessary times, they grow more precious to me.

When I'm separated from him, the ache seems palpable, physical. My thoughts hurt. I think of things that I must write to him, ideas that must be explored, jokes that need to be shared.

And that is only the very edge of the need that is exposed by separation.

The need to be held, used, and cared for becomes overwhelming and all consuming. It is something that hurts each moment, each second.

Sweet Fourth

Set the oven to 425 degrees, grease the muffin tins with cooking spray.

Sift flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Tumble purple blueberries into the mix to coat the berries in flour. Make a well in the middle.

Mix milk, 1 egg, and melted butter. Pour into the middle of the well and combine gently til just moistened.

Scoop into muffin tin wells and bake for 20 minutes. Prepare leftover blueberries with sliced nectarines, make fresh coffee. Turn on Norah Jones and find your favorite book to snuggle up with on the sofa as you wait for the sweetness to come forth into the last of the summer morning chill.

Find a beautiful spot in the garden where you can hear the fountain trickling into the lower basin and gaze at the butterflies who flutter through life.

Sip your coffee, a small bite of buttery blueberry muffin...and sigh.

Sigh...because in a few hours, the peace will be shattered by family. Joyful, screaming, petty-arguing family with personalities that delight and grate, even as you roar in laughter at their sniping comments.

And this is a sweet fourth of July.

Impossible

How is it possible that he could not know how very much I miss him? The words are so tepid, so lukewarm in comparison to the steady ache that longs to be filled by him.

I miss him so much I would happily bake lasagna for him in the middle of summer.

It's sheer lunacy. It's impossible that he wouldn't know I miss him.

Damn! Now, I'm gonna have to make that lasagna in July.

Happily...