My heart is at it again. I woke up this morning with that familiar feeling of longing, the sumptuous indulgence of replaying certain moments from last night. I stretch and sink deeper under covers, lips curved at the thought of a hand on my back, a piercing exchange, the curiously familiar sensation of this new body, the promise of more.
I pause the replay and turn my attention to sensation. I’m surprised to witness a constriction in my chest, the clamp of dread, the fear part of me that is unwilling to dive again and again, the part of me that wants off this roller coaster.
Despite myself, this moment is the most delicious. The meal has not been served or even glimpsed, but aromas are spilling through the cracked kitchen doors, tantalizing my senses with the promise of all that I hunger for. In this moment, I can anticipate being satiated in all the ways that I crave, I can expect this meal will be all the nourishment I have been needing.
But of course, our noses are so keen, so imaginative, and can create so much more in the brain than just the simple translation of sustenance. I am imagining la creme de la creme, the soufflé to your egg scramble, the filet mignon to your ground beef.
I won’t know that this meal is not what I require until it’s too late, until I’ve devoured every last morsel and it hits my belly with force and fury. No, that wasn’t what I was wanting. But now it occupies my middle and is creeping up my insides to wrap tendrils around my heart until I can’t breathe, and I’m comatose with over-eating, exhausted by the excursion of consuming this love.
So instead of unpausing the tape, unfurling my napkin, sharpening my knife, I am writing this, I am noticing sensation. I’m enjoying the scent without naming the prize. I am setting the table, and thinking about taking small, slow bites.