Looking over at her now, she compliments the space so well, softly sleeping in my bed that's no longer my own. She's a real life photograph, distantly gorgeous in sleep, in every contour and texture, smooth like nostalgia.

It's been a long time since someone took my hand, or came up behind me and gave me a neck rub. I'd thought that her visit would be like the other horrific travel stories, me flying thousands of miles just for someone else's baggage and desperate attempts at validation through sex. I feel awkward sometimes, but on occasion I relax and believe in her smiles and caressing fingertips. She feels natural, comfortable, melting against me like a snowflake.

Jen fascinates me, as a person and physical entity. She's altogether there and not there. She is an imperfectly pleasant dream phasing into conscious thought, bringing me back to the physical: how intensely hot my skin becomes when I become excited, the constant mild ache in my testes, how soft our flesh feels to one another. She is beautiful and makes me feel beautiful, unashamed of my body and tenderness.

Looking at her now, though, I feel sad. She's here, she cares about me, but I wonder how she feels, what she thinks. I've always been terrible at reading people when it comes to me. The insecurity fades in and out, like a fly fisher's tackle, casting me to softly lay against her, flicking me back to my seat and back again.

To horribly pun, it's the reel deal. She makes me feel happy. Degenerating to a sugar-coated bath of lollipops, she gives me faith and shows me that I can love someone who's good for me. I'm not sure what we have, but it is something wonderful and I hope it lasts.

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