Just breathe.

Yeah, people have been telling me that all my life.

Me, the reigning Queen of the Kingdom of Freak the Fuck Out, who never learned how to breathe, who spent too much time being high and mighty, thinking she knew best, looking down on everyone's opinion.

Because yeah, I knew it all. I tore down other people's opinions relentlessly, scoffed at everyone; thinking just because I was a little smarter than the average bear, the average bear didn't know shit.

Or frankly, the other above average bear for that matter.

My eyes have been opened a lot recently, my heart feels like it grew a new chamber, my sense of trust is huge.

For him at least.

This was new, but the softness of his lips is always new and old at the same time. Thinking

Whoa this is new sensation

but

You feel like home to me; I've known you all my life.

Impossible.

Push me in the swing. I trust that when you swing me over your head you won't drop me like I've always been afraid of.

I've always been afraid of the pavement. It's hard, uncontrollable, it hurts and when the impact supposedly comes you can't stop it and

Ow. Ow. Ow. Why the fuck did I do this that was so stupiddddd.

He assured me over and over while my hands shook as I climbed in, and suddenly, I had no idea what I had ever been afraid of. Perhaps it was other people's tales of how they had crashed and burned, while I would vainly touch my bow shaped lips, my skin thinking

I could never do anything that would give me a scar.

Our home is like a safe haven. We curl up in our living room, our stories dancing around us in the air. I'm staring into his dark eyes, aware that I am openly flirting; touching my hair, lowering my gaze... even though it started unconsciously.

Who flirts with their own husband? You're shameless.

I think it's absolutely imperative to flirt with your own husband, to create such a strong emotional givemethewordstodescribeit bond that is more intimate than any sexual escapade I have ever had. Emotional foreplay before you get that kiss that feels like pop rocks in your mouth.

My heart thumps in my chest.

I've always been hard on myself. When I look in the mirror, I see a collection of pieces rather than an entire picture.

Porcelain skin, yet you could stand to lose weight. Beautiful eyes, but your upper lip needs to be fluffed up.

Your best friend said she could get you free collagen injections.

He'd never forgive me. Secretly I am glad for lately I am getting a grip, seeing that what he sees is most important; the rest seems irrelevant while I am home in the warm decadency that is Time Off.

Before work, when he is gone I think no layers of grey eyeshadow could cover what I see, covering myself in false lashes, fallacy, opinions of strange men that are just so temporary and meaningless. I struggle with my first table these days because I don't drink at work anymore. I hang back while the VIP hosts tries to sell a room for myself and a coworker to Parisians who look at me with confusion in their eyes, even though I speak perfect French. Las Vegas shook me to the bottom of my guts. I don't want to rock the boat, even though I never hesitate to grab the face of the dirty old men who try to lick me.

Despite those occasions, here I don't have to take baby wipe baths. I don't go home disgusting, revolted, swearing a blue streak hunting down leftover Bacardi Razz drinks I don't even like that my room mate abandoned in the fridge weeks ago.

Six days a week is not reality for me anymore. I should work more I know, he can't do it all.

Sometimes I feel guilty about it. He dismisses me when I am melting with apologies saying

I look real upset right?

smiling as he picks up room.

Last night he picked me up without protest long after he'd gone home for the evening. The guilt creeps up in me as again I try to explain why I called, lamenting

I'm so sorry darling. I could have called a cab, I don't mean to be inconsiderate.
What kind of husband would I be then?

We walked up to the house. He always unlocks the door for me to go in first as he holds it open. I throw my bag on the floor, complaining about incompetence, seething with frustration, throwing my hands around, the same complaints every dancer has after a slow night where she sits around for hours before anyone makes a move.

He always listens to me without protest, I think I must sound like a horrible whiner until he suggests we go for a swing.

I feel like you did this for me as a special treat.

I don't think there's anything wrong with needing it sometimes; to whoosh through the air, fill the silent night with secrets. It's our time, the once in awhile to just let go, be ourselves, let go of work persona corporate drama garbage that clouds the little things to take joy in.

In my house these dismissals dissolve like sugar cubes in my mouth, sweetening my speech.

In my house it's the norm for there to be no arguing, no uncomfortable silences, no tension, no outside opinions telling me

You're being ridiculous.

Everyone has their own swing, whatever the metaphor means to you. Yet upon suggestion the image in anyone's mind beings about the same emotion. There's no stopping the smile no matter how hard you bite your lip.

Our swings go well past dawn. They are full of sparkling kisses, soft gestures.

I think to myself that heartbreak is obsolete now. He touches my hair, my face so delicately, like maybe I'm made of china.

I look up; everything I thought was wrong in the world is gone.

One day, I hope every one of my loved ones can be looked at like this, and feel enough trust to be pushed on their personal swings.