Sometimes I’m not sure what to do with us, where to file us mentally.

I wrote the other day that he knew it wasn’t love and it isn’t, but that is not to say there is nothing. Perhaps what it is is better than love. Despite the head long wonderful dizzying rush of new love this may be better.

This is quiet and steady. This has its own warmth, its own need and its own sense of pride. It has its own respect and its own hunger. It also has its own sense possession, ownership even. I know I am his.

I have only known this feeling twice, the feeling that I would do anything, be anthing that he may want. It comes from knowing deep inside that all of you is looked after. This feeling allows you to let go. Let go of the reflex to always watch your back. That feeling of self-preservation falls away allowing you to open to any and all possibilities.

Though I may not know what to call this feeling I carry in me for him its presence is soft and warm, respectful, dignified and hungry. It’s many good things. And although it may not be love it is most certainly loving and I most certainly feel loved.