One of the things I have always loved about my husband, or one of the things that I loved about him before heroin made him lose interest in everything except heroin, was the way that our physical relationship was so constant. His hands and mouth always found me, and my hands and mouth always found him. Making love wasn't just an act that happened in our bed...it was something constant, a perpetual fuckhaze of intimacy, touch, and desire, that loomed over us, kept us close. People noticed it, too...talked about the ways that we'd look at each other, the ways we'd interact.
As he emerges from his last relapse and begins accumulating some clean time, our physical connection is coming back to life. I love it...I love remembering what it is that I loved first about him. I love feeling that foundation in mutual attraction regaining its solidity, and I love the feeling of looking forward to coming home to him.
I'm also fucking terrified of it. That fuckhaze-feeling gets all in my mind and makes me susceptible to his lying. It's like my brain gets bathed in semen and sweat and smells, and I can't think clearly. I think that he's wonderful, and I let my guard down, and I let him close to me, giving him opportunities to invade my stillness. I don't want my serenity disturbed...but I do want to enjoy my husband while he's here. I'm not so sure that the other guy that lives in his body, that guy who I'd love to drown forcibly in the toilet, might not come back soon.
Photo Credit: Marcio Melo