Grounding

I've not moved in hours. Or minutes. Not looking at the clock anymore. Hurts to look at. Going. Going. Another unit, gone. And it still. Wasn't better yet. It still. Hadn't passed. It hurts. It hurts to experience the units.

It hurts to be.

That's all I can feel. Hurt. Intangible indescribable inscrutable infernal. Emotions separate from my consciousness. Oil and water. I watch them. Out of my reach. And they're also. Not real. Big red FAKE on each. I didn't do that. The hurt did.

It's right though.

No. It's not. I've felt good before.

No. It wasn't real.

Yes. It was.

This is all there is. Others come and go, but the hurt is always here. This is what's real.

Cage. Space tight. In my head. It's not always this small. There are bigger. Things. I HAVE felt. Bigger. Outside. Real things. Outside of. Me. Out.

Get out of this tiny space. FEEL. Get me out. Help.

What's outside.

Him. On the other end of the couch. Glasses slipping down his nose. Brow furrowed. Lips parted slightly as he reads. Lips. Focus on them. Get. Closer.

Straighten up slowly. Lean towards him. See the deep pink on the lower lip. He looks at me as the cushion sinks. Corners gently turning upwards. "Hi lovely," lips shape.

Sound. Soft words, deep tone. At a volume only for me, right next to him. Touch. Soft, damp. He lets me touch. Poke and pull on the pink protrusions. Stubbled skin around them. His hand in my periphery. Being touched. Warm, soft thumb on my cheek.

It's pity.

No. It's not.

Smell. His clean clothes. Press my face into the crook of his neck. His scent. Inhale. Warm and unique. I know this smell. I love this smell.

Love?

His pulse against my forehead. Real. Touch again. Sensing the shape of his palm and fingers on my back. Not real enough. My hand slips under his shirt. Touching his chest. Close and real. External. I slip his hand under my shirt. Touching my chest. Connecting.

Hear his breathing, slow and regular. See his jawline, short dark bristles. Touch his chest, wiry hairs, thumping heart. Smell him, his clothes. Taste... I lunge to kiss him. A "Hm!" of surprise, he readily reciprocates. Mint? Gingery. The tea he'd made, now cold in my mug, gone from his. Tastes better on him anyway. On this very real person. Whom I. Love.

Kissing harder. Desperate to connect with the warmth that I'm sure I have. That he has. His breath hot. Quickening. He removes his shirt, presses my hands to his chest.

"I'm here."

Can he see me fighting to surface?

He stands.

No! Stay! But. He's not leaving. He's pulling me upright. Leading me to our room. Our bed.

Stay close.

Touch. His hair prickling my inner thighs. Warm lips, wet tongue. He pulls my hand onto his head, keeping connection. He clenches my fingers for me. Gripping his hair. It's real. He's here. Hear. Gentle sucking, loving murmurs, heavy breathing. His or mine? My body is reacting. Getting hotter.

He's above me, brown eyes searching mine. It must be me breathing hard; his mouth is closed. Kisses on my forehead, my nose, my mouth. A new taste is here. He presses my palm to his mouth, his cheek, his chest again. His heart is fast. And real. I can almost feel him.

His weight on top of me. Close. Holding tight. My hands on his bare back. Sticky with sweat. Slow, rhythmic friction between our legs. Pushing inside me. My body...feels. The hurt is drowning in his warmth. My warmth? Almost reaching him. The cracks of light are so close. A wave rolls up. Up my chest. My throat. From my mouth erupts a noise of satisfaction.

Sound. Of My Voice. I've sent something from within myself out into a real world, soundwaves that echo and land in folds of fabric and folds of ears that tell the world that I am here. I am real. I am real in this real world with this real, lovely, warm person. He's laughing, I can hear and feel it with his face buried in my neck. He's relieved, and encourages me to make more noises. I squeeze him greedily with hands and thighs, obliging with vocalizations of ecstasy. I've got it. I can feel and mingle with and return the warmth that he exudes so effortlessly. That I love so dearly. That is so, so real.