Or choking on my own morality.
Or fighting with my mother.
Or even fucking missing people.
This is a story about a haunted house, a room with a king sized bed, and melting muscles in a jacuzzi big enough for two.
Within an hour our clothes were discarded in favor of flesh--his looked lean and pale, marked by bruises the shape of hibiscus flowers. Later we walked along the canal and kissed on bridges suspended above frozen water, our fingers interlocked and forming tributaries. Later his lips parted, lit by a marcasite stone of saliva, brow wrinkled, the pattern of his breath heavy and warm as the water rose and tumbled around the islands of our bodies. Later I turned on my side, and he tucked his arms around me, and we shared the songs that shared our heartbreaks at 16, 17. Our voices were raw, rough, but honest and soft and his spoke to the part of me that wants to share every supermarket ballad, ever tragic story that I've ever loved and rewritten in my mind to end happily since I met him, and I had so much to say but I was so tired and the fire was warm and orange and blue.
I fell asleep with my eyes full of his eyes, woke up holding within my gaze the same perfectly framed features lit by pale sun through curtains, and I wanted to find some way to freeze time, but, well, there was breakfast in bed to consider and consume.
Today, after tired goodbye kisses, a cover version of the Beatles "You Will" plucked out on banjo strings came on the radio, and I thought of you, green eyes gray besides a yellow wall, and I thought that I should have shared that song with you.
And then later, I thought, I have all the time in the world.
(which is to say, thank you, and you know the rest).
twice sixteen - 14 January, 2016
Hey--what's going on? - 11 April, 2008
I wasn't cool - 30 July, 2004
something you wouldn't believe if you saw it. - 11 May, 2004
Going to 17th and U - 27 April, 2004