Sunday, July 8, 2012

baby come back to me

I get it now. I understand why me doesn’t fit, why I’m all parenthetical. Why I can’t catch my breath. The obvious reason is I’m in love, and I long for him, even more than wolf-dogs or ginger, so this distance burns like jalapeños. The less obvious reason is that when I spend time with him, there is no agenda, no timetable, he is not getting fit into a two hour time slot between work and sideshow––usually (when he is fit in, I feel cheated, with a taste in my mouth like too-dry peanut butter). So when he's away, all I got is busy, and busy fulfills like cabbage on an empty stomach. Time with him is measured by the lapse between eye contact and lips, the pulling of clothes, the silence between shared thoughts. We may lay in bed and get down(oh hellz yeah) or brew tea or watch videos or talk about our days or the people we know or projects we’re thinking of, but there is no objective, no priorities besides the body’s need for sleep and food. Time with him is relaxed, a rumination, a slow submerging of presence. Time with him is waking on holiday; warm bed sheets and stretching back into skin.

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