Normal should feel warm and relieving, but usual and forgettable - certainly not profound. It should accompany the peace of Sunday's sunset as we routinely ride home beneath its shreds of violent pinks. It should not spark a jolt of unsettling fear when I realize that I have recklessly nestled myself into the nook of Normal's safety. There is no true safety in letting all of your armor fall away; there is no actual reliability in waking and retiring against the heat of his skin. Sooner or later I'll be clutching pillows with the hope of fooling myself through the night. He'll be gone again, swallowed up by the abyss of War's fury, and I'll jingle with my insides full of broken shards. That's the fate bestowed upon little girls who play with gluttonous, luxurious Normal.
Make yourself comfortable. I know better than that.
I only wish I could take him for granted. I wish that our duet was so stiflingly blazé that it drove me to maintain a drunken fantasy of something less ordinary. Instead, I snatch his sneezes from the air, capture each of his scents, memorize the quake of his rhythmic pulse. I stash these events away without thinking because I know the days will come again when even meager shadows of him will hold me together.