Lost

"We have to go back home, Chris. I am tired of this cabin, I miss my apartment. I miss your house. I miss just being with you. Here at the cabin there are so many people always coming and going. At home no one bothers us, we can do whatever we want to do whenever we want to." I complain and plead with him the sixth morning we were there. It wasn't until early in the morning that the visitors from the previous day had left.

"Okay, Iris, we will leave tomorrow. But, I would like to stop by this shaman in Austin. Last night, Taylor was telling me about him. He sounds really good and legit. You can either go with me and see the shaman or you can go to Tay's house. I don't want to force you to do something you are not comfortable doing," he replies.

I smile at him knowing that he never would push me to do anything, everything that I have done with him has been by own choice.

I kiss his lips and feel his hands grab at my hips pulling me closer. We don't do this enough. I place my at,ms behind his neck and wrap my fingers in his hair, gently pulling his face closer to mine making our lips tighter against each other. It may be the early morning glass of wine that we both had, but we both are feeling more loving towards one another.

His hands grip behind my thin thighs and lift me up so that I can wrap my legs around his scrawny frame. I smile against his lips and smile at the thought of what we will be doing once we reach the bed.

He carefully set me on the bed then sprinted to the door and locked it and closed the windows so that no one will be able to interrupt our sensual act. Our love making.

"I love you, Iris," he whispers against my neck.

"I love you more."

The clock on the wall says 'six' when we leave the little cabin in the morning. We woke up around four and shared a blunt, reminiscing about the previous day's activities. It was then that I realized that the previous day was the first day in a very long time that we both were completely sober except for a few glasses of wine. It was also the first time in a very long time that we had made love whilst being almost sober.

During the last day and night, I also began to realize that, of was not physically being in my apartment that I needed to be in order to feel as though I was home, it was the feeling of being loved that I needed in order to be home. I had never felt that way before, not even with Zach. Especially not with Zach. I not only had that feeling when Chris and I had sex, but the entire day, something that had never happened. I was truly happy yesterday.

"Well, what did you decide?" Chris asks as we get into his car.

"Right at this moment, I promise you that I will follow you wherever you go, unless you don't want me anymore. Right now, I also promise that I love you more than you will ever know," I say and he laughs at my use of his lyrics.

"I was never going to tell you this, but I wrote that song about you. Now I wish I hadn't said that, it makes me sound so god damn cheesy, but I don't care, it is true. I love you Iris Anastasia Sovich. I am glad that you will go everywhere with me because I want you to be everywhere with me. So you want to go to the shaman?" He says holding both of my hands in his tattooed ones with a silly grin on his face.

For the entire ride he traces circles on the back of my left hand with his right thumb occasionally bringing it to his lips to kiss the back. He is a hopeless romantic, always chivalrous, always a gentleman.

"We will have to walk a little bit to be able to reach the shaman. I hope you don't mind," he tells me. I shake my head and begin to open my door of the car.

"Don't," he says and opens his own, then quickly jogs to my side and opens my door for me, then holds my hand as I get out of the car. I smile and can feel my cheeks blush as he tightly grips my hand as we walk by several men our age.

I haven't seen this side of Chris in a long time. With him I am home.

We stop under a tree and sit at an old wooden picnic table. To top has bird shit scattered over the top and under the table is a colony of ants scurrying round to take a large bread crumb home to feed their families.

"I know that this may sound strange, but many times, recently, when I look at you, I think of this poem by Charles Bukowski." Chris says sitting next to me on the bench seat, one of his long tattooed arms behind me.

He begins,
"little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet."

"That's a very nice poem, Chris, but what I can not understand is why didn't you write one yourself? You have written so many, so I know that it is not because you do not know how to," I say.
He is quiet for a moment then gets up and pulls me with him. We walk down a path in the park for a few moments just enjoying the sound of the wind, the birds, the crickets, and the sound of the laughter from the children over at the swing set just down the hill from where we are. Most of all, we enjoy the sound of our breaths, knowing that today is in fact real and not a dream.