I cannot stand to be the the little spoon because I cannot stand to be the one who is held because I cannot stand to be the one who ruins it. What if you feel the rolls of my stomach or notice the thin patch of hair on my scalp or smell any sort of smell or get too hot from my heat or, worst of all, inevitably, intolerably, you let go? I cannot be held because I cannot bear to be put down. So I prefer instead to be the backpack.
I climb behind you on the couch and hook both legs around and over your thighs and you hold my ankles with my feet in your lap and I reach across the front of your torso to connect my hands and I press my cheek to your back and, crucially, you barely have to hold any of me in your grasp. So feel free to do something else while I’m there, like watch TV or scroll through your phone, because I am NOT the only thing that has to hold your attention, don’t worry. I can be as barely there as you need me to be. As long as I can still feel you, warm through your Jerry Paper T-shirt, just until you remember it’s time to get up and walk away. Because at least when you do I will be left sitting there upright, as if I had only ever planned to sit by myself on that couch. Like yeah, I meant it that way. That was all I needed to be happy. And I am, oh I am, I promise I promise I promise I am. I am sometimes your backpack and I am sometimes just sitting there and I can sometimes feel you and I can sometimes not. And I am happier than ever.
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