Found in Drafts #2

It’s Monday the second, baby is due on Tuesday the third.

We lay in bed until gone 9am. We held each other, my hands felt the unchanged elegance of her legs, and then the unrecognisable bump that is her stomach. The bump is both beautiful and ludicrous. The whole thing is both beautiful and ludicrous. We spoke about the first night we met. I told her how although I hadn’t had the vocabulary to communicate myself, the fact remains, I knew I loved her from the beginning.

I remember now, how earlier this year we sat on the decking of a remote cabin in the countryside. Both of us pottering, and talking about love. I said how when first getting to know each other I’d found it difficult, because whilst the love I felt for her was the strongest, most sincere love i’d ever experienced, it, for the most part, came with little to no giddiness, little to no ‘fireworks’. I said it as a positive, for what the love lacked in explosiveness it more than made up for in its depth, certainty and authenticity. It was and is, real. The conversation carried on, and found its natural end. Later that evening we were sat playing a board game by candlelight and I borrowed her phone to look something up on the internet. On opening her web browser I was presented with her last search: Is love supposed to be explosive? It broke my heart. My intention had been to communicate love, real love.

Words are hopeless, racing away from intention, steaming ahead. What’s the use in trying? Because to try and communicate is better than to fester, alone. The hopeless, obstacle ridden slalom that is communicating. When executed proficiently, I feel, I think, I share, she feels, she thinks, she replies. Do away with any one component and the chain falls apart to some extent. Oh let us be without feeling, let us speak without thought let us feel without sharing, and on and on. Let’s not let guess work into the equation.