I just can’t handle this right now.
I’m sorry if that sounded melancholic, when in reality it’s anything but. Over the past day two photo sets of me and my girlfriend have arrived in my inbox. They’re both amazing. I’m always afraid of using that word lightly or incorrectly, but I’m legitimately amazed every time I see them. Two sets, entirely different sets. They’re both fucking gorgeous. There’s an authenticity to them that somehow captures the way we feel together. It’s love and it’s on film and it’s almost too much for me to deal with.
The first set is our boudoir shot from Playground Conference. There are a few shots with our close couple friends, some touching, a little kissing. They’re nice and we make a pretty group. The shots with her alone though have a quality of their own. They’re soft, gentle. There’s a lightness in them contrasting the density of feeling they capture. We’re both garbed in underwear, I’ve got suspenders attached. Even so, the shoot is less steamy, more sensual. Less erotic, more emotive. Smiling, looking into each other’s eyes. She’s pulling a strap off my shoulder. We’re just torsos and the impression of my fingers on her back is but a hint. Our lips are locked, eyes closed, the tease of a smile creasing our mouths. Making silly monster faces, fingers bent into faux T-Rex claws. She’s giving me a piggy back and it’s hard to tell if I’m smiling or crying. The joy is undeniable. She’s on her knees and elbows, my hands supportive, pressed gently into her back. She’s docile but relaxed, those doe eyes making a bee line straight to my heart. It’s too much. She’s too much.
The second set is short but so sweet. Photos from the work holiday party. We’re dressed in our 1920s finery. She’s holding an elegant cigarette holder while my hand is inexplicably dangling handcuffs. She looks immaculate, while I’m adopting a more laconic, jovial posture. In another I’m hoisting her by the waist, looking up with a mix of pride and devotion. Her mouth is open in a gasp, eyes aglow. Light reflects off her lips and I think of their softness, the tangible, physical joy I feel in my core when they press to mine. The last shot kills me every time. Our smiles are so wide I’m stunned our faces can even hold them. Bent over with laughter, my right hand in a quizzical gesture as my left curves around to grasp hers behind my back. If David Attenborough were to glance, he’d say we were in our most natural element. If a normal picture is worth a thousand words, this one could write our history.
I’ve spent all day looking at these pictures. It’s no exaggeration to say that every 10 minutes at work this afternoon I took another peek. Each time my heart exploded. Posting them to Facebook, each “like” draws me back to look once more. I fall in love with her all over again. Every. Single. Time. I must’ve looked 50-100 times in the past few hours. The concept of “enough” doesn’t even register. The “likes” keep flowing in and it’s easy to tell why: These pictures live and breathe. They tell a story. They tell our story.
It’s too good. I can’t put it down.