#i know my artistic shit

Safety feels like such an alien concept, something that you can never truly know, not in its entirety. Just something that you get to understand by degrees, finding your way away from insecurity and fear and into something where those slip from primary to secondary concerns, before falling back into something altogether tertiary. 

There are moments where you feel safe, though. They’re the moment where you don’t think, where you just allow yourself to be rooted in the now, just my arms around you, and your legs around me. A tangle of limbs that is stronger for the mess it causes, regardless of quite how structurally unsound it all is. The engineer laments the moment we fall back into one another, a chuckle from me, a giggle from you. 

But this is not a solemn moment. It’s not something where hands are restricted to the PG zones of your body, where the opportunity for the salacious and the perverted aren’t rife. And my hands will wander, because they’re attached to my brain, and my brain avoids the solemn like a plague. I’ll still be squeezing, slipping, suggesting with my fingers, regardless of exactly how tender or sweet a moment it might be. You could be thinking nothing short of love, and I’d be just as obsessed with sex as ever. 

Which isn’t to say I don’t dwell on love in those moments, too, but then love has always been inextricable from sex for me, anyway.