I am whole in my space. I am loved in your space. I am needed in their space.
Space.
Elongated pauses between words, filled with anticipation and heat.
I can read the spaces between your words better than a book of poetry.
Space quickly closes between us, skin whispering “let me take over now” as we move in a dance that makes the cosmos ache. Milky ways fluctuate and galaxies spiral as we become each other’s space.
When you are in my space, your smile fills it up and I forget how cluttered it is. I forget how I share my room with my two daughters, our beds snug together and close. As much as I ache for privacy and my own space, nothing beats waking up to my three-year-old’s toothy grin and wild hair.
There is no space untouched by my taste or tickled by my hobbies.
Figurines line shelves or nestle in the crannies of my bookshelves, peeking through. Postcards are tacked onto the wall, colorful and loud.
I have taken over what space I have like a snail carries it’s home.
I carry my home in my heart and in my eyes.
Four children need space and they need love. They need a safe space, freedom to say no and the ability to grow without fear presiding over every choice they make. They love their space and they have made it their own, books and baubles and toys spreading out, claiming the space for children. Stars chuckle at this display, but what do the stars really know, apart from the song of meteors and moonbeams?
I’m a woman who needs space. Space to heal, space to learn, space to work hard to accomplish my goals.
I’m a woman who needs her own space, but is sharing because that is best for now. Space will come, it will open up like a mouth ready to devour cupcakes and macarons because space is sweet. Space is pleasurable, like lines of inky fudge or billowing mounds of cream on luscious pies.
Space is flight, the freedom the seagulls have as they skim the ocean with their wings and capture crabs with their beaks. The ocean is space spilled and made concrete, stardust in molten, liquid form. Salty and tangy and seaweedy space. Indigo blue space, like eyes that never shut but gaze unflinchingly at a sky that never answers it’s questions.
I love reaching out into space when I’m at the beach. I am free, I am wind, I am sea glass softened by waves of life lapping over me for years. I am soft space.
I am a safe space. I am breathing in the space leftover by the exhalations of waves and salty spires of foam and confetti water drops. Space is relaxation, a choreography of bones lowering and joints loosening, tension dropping like egg yolks out of crispy shells into eager batter.
Space is laughter that bubbles and blossoms like spring, confetti and fireflies that won’t take sunlight for an answer. Space is the days between seasons where the sun and clouds share their space and the air is crisp with cooperation and hope.
Space is hope and the quiet of a stolen moment to breathe.
There is no space between us when we lie together and it is in that moment that I feel like I have the most space in the world.
