Intimate and Intricate
Neo.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” translates as I’m terrified. Terrified that you won’t wake up and terrified that you will.
Because I watch you dodge those bullets and move like them and all I can think is, “What are you?” and of course, Morpheus’ voice in my head answers, “The One,” which I knew, I think, but I don’t know that I know what The One is.
We say it with capital letters, you can hear the capital letters, and I realize that there’s a reason for that.
Neo.
Your hand is in my chest. In. My. Chest. Which is completely different than being on my chest, with that almost shy but eager grin that you’d like to think is a leer, except there’s no way you, Neo, can ever pull off a leer. Sorry, but no.
Which is not dealing with the fact that your hand is in my chest, and life is literally flowing in to me because you will it, and I realize all over again that it’s like having my very own Superman (though I will never, ever admit that, because I know you, geek boy, and that would mean my being compared to Lois Lane) and I feel safe. Remarkably safe, for having just died.
But I guess that makes sense, because I’m in your arms.
And nothing can ever hurt me here.
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