Intimacy

Say it. Aloud.
In-ti-macy.

It is a long drawn sigh, sibilant, echoing. Not the kind that you can shout out, rather one that cannot even be said, just whispered. Or felt.

What is intimacy. Not necessarily the kind that is created between sheets, behind closed doors. Sex need not be intimate. Though pillow talk can be.

Intimacy is a world of two, in the midst of a whole slew of people. It is looking up, seeking a particular pair of eyes, only to find that they are already looking at you. And have been for a while.

It is a voice on the phone line. And a conversation that gets softer and softer as it continues. It is not the talk,but the tone.

It is your name being said.

It is being stretched out, next to someone, reading.

Intimacy is a drive in the rain that ends too soon when it should have lasted longer. A lifetime. Atleast a night.
It is burying your nose in cushions touched and finding fragrance.
Intimacy is a voice.

It is a fleeting touch on the hand, a touch that caresses a strand of hair. It holds out a promise that more will follow. But maybe, that is your imagination.

Intimacy is watching a movie in translation. Listening to a voice in the slight darkness telling you about a scene, a song, a lyric, a line.

Intimacy is sensing, that under the surface is all this that will perhaps never be acknowledged. That it exists, is intimacy.

It is sensing someone’s presence next to you. Shoulders touching, even arms. It is closing your eyes and soaking it all in.

If you have this kind of intimacy, hold on to it.

And hopefully, the person too.