Becoming Whispers | What I'm Learning to Want

I'm sitting on the porch this evening with a glass of wine, and the air smells like jasmine.

It's thick and sweet, almost intoxicating, the kind of scent that makes you want to breathe deeper, slower, like you could taste it if you tried.

The light is soft. Golden. The kind that makes everything look like a memory even while it's happening.

It catches in the leaves of the jasmine vine, filters through the branches overhead, settles warm on my bare arms.

I take a sip of wine and let it rest on my tongue, dry, and crisp, a little bitter, with that faint sweetness underneath.

I feel the coolness of the glass in my hand, the condensation slick against my palm.

And I'm thinking about what I want.

Not in the abstract. Not the big, sweeping declarations I used to make about love and partnership and forever.

Just... this. Right now. What do I want?

I want to feel this alive and not apologize for it.

I want to be seen by someone who isn't afraid of how much I feel.

I want to be met, not managed, not soothed, not fixed. Just... met.

The jasmine releases another wave of scent, and I close my eyes, breathing it in.

I feel the warmth of the evening on my skin, the way the air seems to hold me, soft and patient.

And something shifts in my chest, not a tightening, but an opening.

A quiet recognition.

I used to think wanting was dangerous. That if I let myself feel the full weight of my desire, I'd become desperate. Needy. Too much.

But sitting here now, I realize: wanting isn't the problem.

It's wanting from a place of lack that makes me lose myself.

And I don't feel lack right now.

I feel full. Alive. Clear.

My body hums with it, this quiet, steady aliveness that doesn't need anything outside itself to feel real.

I take another sip of wine, and the taste settles deeper this time, warmer.

I want someone who can hold this fullness without needing to dim it.

Someone who can meet me here, in this aliveness, this intensity, this presence, and not flinch.

And if that person doesn't exist, or isn't ready, or isn't here yet, 

I'm okay.

Because I'm not waiting to feel whole.

I already am.

The light shifts, deepening into amber, and I sit with that knowing.

Not forcing it. Not performing it.

Just feeling it settle into my bones.