The most intimate thing we can do is to allow people we love most see us at our worst. At our lowest. At our weakest. True intimacy happens when nothing is perfect.
Amy Harmon, The Song of David
(via seulray)
Sometimes you’re hot. Sometimes you’re not. That’s not the measure of intimacy.
The one downside of all the lovely photos on Tumblr is that for every one we see we never see the 10,000 photos that aren’t perfect. We never see the 100,000 or the 1,000,000 moments where we thank our lucky stars no one else will ever know.
You’re as beautiful in your ratty sweatpants and stubble as polished in your finest Vicky See’s. As lovable when you’re crabby, or bloaty, or uncaffeinated as your best day ever. As important when you’re absolutely not in the mood as when you’re carnivorously aroused. As charming when you trip over the heaps of laundry on the floor of the bedroom as when you float across the floor of the ballroom. And you’re as dear surrounded by a million tissues and unwashed chicken-soup bowls from a cold as when you’re rocking in your sweet baby’s arms.
Intimacy isn’t so much the moments we see in porn. It’s the moments we know it’s ok to be ourselves with each other. In bed and… not so much.
