Intimacy is your breath on my neck as we sleep. Intimacy is how you don’t make me apologize for the terribleness that is me. Intimacy is I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Intimacy is Don’t be. Intimacy is the kisses that stamp ‘mine’ across my abdomen. Intimacy is thighs. Intimacy is beyond names and words and the veneer of civility. Intimacy is savagery. Intimacy is dark fairy tales, dark chocolate, candles. Intimacy is the wine and underwear. Intimacy is doing nothing with the days, but handling and dropping them with clumsy, irreverent hands. Intimacy is finding a place we fit. We fulfill intimacy. Intimacy is — intimacy is — intimacy is raw and needy. How human intimacy is — intimacy is human and bodies and senses and history and history creating history. Your intimacy is creating my history — and me. Intimacy is in/with/near/between — you. How I loathe and love, lick, touch, rub, kiss, bite, smell. You… you… you… Intimacy is me, too. Intimacy is two. Intimacy is messy and good and necessary. Intimacy is intimate and fragilely finite. Intimacy is what’s too far/and/where you are… It is so good… ♥