When I talk about intimacy I don't mean the hazy, lost in love gaze you give to your lover. The kind where writers yearn and reach for in their poses and measurements linked to nature, art, and the brief touching of lips. All of that is like the brief flash after a lightning storm - brief, dreamy, and untouchable by the human hands.
When I speak about intimacy I am talking about the moments you give to yourself at two in the morning, a sweaty summer day, and a lazy winter afternoon. The way your own gaze goes from your mouth to your eyes to that small scar you carry from your bike accident. I'm talking about your own fingers carving the insides of your body. That my dear, that's intimacy. The ability to feel your own power and not feel ashamed that someone else isn't inside you giving you that same feeling. That's love. The ability to not align yourself to a thousand year old tree, a girl with beautiful hair, a random boy who told you he loved you, or to a unknown person grasping for some human connection through words on a paper. All that is waste. It's a wasteland. A emotional gray wasteland for those who crave real intimacy but are too emotionally fucked to take a real stand to try the real thing.
When I speak about intimacy I'm talking about things beyond the realm of sex. It goes beyond the notion that our bed must be warm at night with another body or how your breath lingers when you're touched the right way. I could care less. What matters more so is how we claim ourselves when no one else will. That's love. That's intimacy. The unbashful ability to make yourself come to terms with yourself without the need to have someone create it for you. Intimacy isn't created by two souls, it is given to the sole person who ignites the fire. The lone wolf in the desert. The first fallen meteor. The unblossomed flower in the forest. All must want it first. And if you want it, you got it.
Darling, you've won.