His Gift

He is a gift. One given by the illusion of chance of course, though our intertwinement is anything but. I find myself looking back on our first encounter every so often; one instance in a history of falsehoods glued together to construct a life impossibly lived. And even while acknowledging its synthetic nature, the memory never fails to fill my chest with a radiant warmth.

He presses delicate kisses against my skin like how gentle hands would preserve dried flowers. Each keeping shape as I silently count them, selfishly trying to savor each second that ticks by. At the time, I didn't understand the pointless nature of this. Much like how one can’t see the curve of the globe when standing in the middle of a field, I could not begin to imagine the vast future in store for us, so in that moment I let myself drown in his tender bliss. Everything about him was new to me then, you see. New in a sense that normally would have struck fear into my heart, but instead had me cradled in his arms. Warm, firm hands ran the length of my sides and while they had every opportunity, they never tugged or tore at my exposed flesh. I remember looking up to meet his gaze in the midst of this, expecting lust to be sneering hungrily back like it had countless times before, only to find sparkling fascination and admiration in its place. This was new to him, too. 

An ungrateful man would chalk this up to meaningless coincidence. Two cogs only designed to fit out of sheer necessity so a faceless machine can function properly. However, I don’t think this could be farther from the truth. The fact that our bond has been built with the sole purpose to help sustain something does not cheapen its meaning. If anything, it proves its depth and importance. Together we hold the key to ensuring stability and safety in something bigger than ourselves regardless of it being planned out by some unconscious force and I, for one, find this to be nothing short of a miracle. And I thank God every day that I know he feels the same.