Almost

One wonders what the other is waiting for.

Originally posted in the SHareCon 2008 zine.

Almost.

What’s he waiting for?

Can’t he see in my eyes how much I want him? Want this first time. First kiss. The first mile on a long, long road down all the days of our lives. Want the taste of his mouth. The mouth that has teased me, scorned me, supported me with words, and tempted me beyond reason with soft smiles and softer sadness.

Can’t he feel it? I can. Thundering in my ears, pounding in the soles of my feet, already racing with the power of his almost-kiss. Surely, beneath the press of his gun-callused fingers, he can feel the trip-hammering of my heart.

So many times we’ve come this close. Closer. Closest. Almost close enough. The moist heat of his breath on my lips. The caress of his eyes on my skin. The rich scent of him invading my brain. So close. But the moment dies unrealized.

Like a map to scale. Inches for miles. This inch or two of empty space between us a Grand Canyon of hesitation and denial. Almost. The saddest word that’s ever been.

Can’t see, can’t feel. Perhaps he will hear. An invitation or plea, whispered in the waiting silence his touch have created, to risk beyond the today of partner and friend and step into the tomorrow of everything that waits to be.

“Come on, Hutch, just do it. Almost isn’t good enough anymore.”