Identical hand twin

For all my clownery, I’m surprisingly insightful ⎯nay, damn near clairvoyant!

See, I’ve met the boy.
He reminds me of all things I’ve said I needed, verbatim
and some needs I couldn’t voice.
I’ve put off putting it down
here ⎯blog jinx, kiss of death!
But I’m showing.

Kept my geriatric pregnancy a secret, as one does in the early stages,
wishing for clockmaking sunsets,
for a fast-spinning gentler world
to tenderly place me on the right day’s palm.
Yes, I’ll carry this to term day.
Yes, I can tell my friends
day.

When that day came and went, its lack of fanfare
made it all the more special. It was just there.
It was real ⎯we don’t really celebrate real, do we?
We are told we want the tale,
we want to give our hearts away and receive another in return,
one that we now own, and goes the way all property does
obsessively looked after lest it be stolen or lost ⎯and you better not lose it,
because losing makes us losers and nobody loves a loser!
Shut up.
This could all end tomorrow and it wouldn’t diminish what I’ve gained.
Delicate creatures die in hands cupped too tightly.

We don’t celebrate real enough,
we don’t appreciate the reality of being two people together,
who quietly go about their love,
wanting for the other what they want for themselves.
Closeness, travels, personal space,
forgiveness, individuality, support.
It’s the strangest feeling, loving yourself through loving someone else.
I will admit to that.

It’s funny, I thought I knew exactly what my falling in love would look like.
In a way, I did. It does kind of look like what I said.
But he has decidedly put his little spin on things.
And spun I have, around a stubby finger that looks nearly identical to mine!
It’s uncanny, the way our hands look almost exactly the same.
And that’s kind of how it all feels: uncanny.
It looks like something I’ve known forever, like the literal back of my hand
yet still surprises me ⎯makes me nervous?,
because it’s not.
It can’t be, there’s only one right hand of mine!
I don’t know how to explain it.

I’ve always hated the way my hands look, by the way.
Among many other things, as it is the human condition to think we’re hobbling trolls.
Now I’m learning to love that which once I thought was unlovable about me, silly as it sounds.
Not necessarily because he loves those things,
but because he shows me how absurd it is to be afraid or ashamed or bothered by them.
That mending won’t go away if he ever does, so that alone is forever a win.

It’s all quite the journey.
From which I should be utterly spent, yet somehow feel like I’m finally resting?
I’d keep going but his cat, the most loving, well-behaved cat I’ve ever encountered,
is currently stepping on my keyboard searching for love.
I’m both afraid she might delete the whole thing and eager to stop my rambling to squeeze the shit out of her.

So that was the update, whoever you are that still reads this.
You can stream Under Rug Swept‘s underrated healthy love anthem You Owe Me Nothing In Return for a way better take on this particular matter.
Alanis will explain it far better than I can.
Toodles!

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