I am at the precipice. That point where the cliff is below my white knuckle toes; centimeters over the edge. My grip on the safety rope is weakening with every word, every kiss, every familiarity, every act of love, every revelation of who he really is. The synapses are slowly migrating from fear to bravery, denial to decision, paralysis to dance. My body is tingling; every nerve ending urging me to move a few more inches over the threshold. I can't see the bottom. Not this time. I don't know what's down there. I can usually see the bottom; the end; the torment that is in the eventuality. But I can't see what's down there. Is it cool water that I will dive into and finally find a peaceful, easy calm? Is it another boulder that will crack my bones and leave me paralyzed for a while or forever this time? Will it be exhilarating? Will it be the most painful of all? I don't know what lies at the basement of that seductive and terrifying depth. Will it paradisaical or tragically tortuous?
Will it be a synonym of my cumulative past misconceptions or will it finally, celestially, be the long desired antonym?
But my hands are weakening from being inside his. My tense muscles are becoming warm and relaxed. My resolve to run from the cliff is fading with each perfect word. Is this a delusion? Is my subconscious manifesting the deep desire to just finally find refuge in a seemingly safe, warm, beautiful abyss of ever-elusive love and projecting it into his every move? Or is it an authenticity after I no longer believed such collective substance could actually be?
White knuckle toes, centimeters over the edge, weakening hands and heightening desire, why are you betraying my resolve? Why is he pulling me from my isolated cave where I could happily camp in solitude and not have to brave any unknown abysses? What is this urge? Why do I want to dive, head first, into it? Why does it seem so easy? If there is a hard rock bottom, can you stop me? Can you tell me to gather my strength and pull myself away from the precipice; go back to the safe shelter? Can you push me away from the cliff and give me a firm and heavy-handed NO. Because my feet have been on the ground, and he is making me believe I can fly, safely and without fear, and dive into something exhilarating and beautiful. Something intellectually fulfilling, yet magically fantastical, yet safe and impervious, resonating on every passion, desire, concupiscence my imagination has ever conjured. But can I really fly? Will he keep me safe? Is there a rock bottom? Will this be the fatal fall?
White knuckle toes, centimeters over the edge, weakening hands and heightening desire. Every nerve ending pulsating and beseeching I jump, plunge, spring myself over that alluring edge into him. But I will not fall. I will dive, willfully and without reservation. I am at the precipice. I think I am ready. In spite of myself.
