[Trigger Warning: Sexual violence, play rape, etc.]My guide to Budget Lolita.
Floppy hugs. Sleepy embraces. The moment between consciousness and not, where I have just enough energy, just enough thought in my head to throw an arm over your similarly groggy form and just let it lie there. You reciprocate. You always reciprocate, if you can. Because when your mind is still in boot mode, there’s only enough space for ‘I want you’ to blip across your mind in faded LEDs. I want you, in a shrug. I want you, the arm that circles your neck murmurs, skin on skin.
It’s there, though, isn’t it? That underlying bassline, the pulsing beat that provides the current for everything we do. I’m still Me, you’re still you. It’s there, because I’ve rolled onto you, and you’re squirming underneath. It’s that that gives me the smiles that I wake up with. It’s that that lets me know that, for as much as we adopt personas, it really is something real and true. It’s a moment that I come back to, when I’m in the middle of my day and feeling your absence. It’s the soft focus family portrait on the wall; always there, mostly forgotten, but occasionally mused upon. The thing you cherish most, even if you never really focus on it.