[Ginger are the nights and the hiccup-inducing fizz that flits to the surface of a carbonated brew.]
Skeptical I am of your motives and the words that formed like oil slicks, dripping as the raw material, the crude oil, from your car-salesman mouth, the words that pooled inside my ear which to those lips drew near as we lay in a convoluted slump together upon that carpet stained with the evidence of past parties smashing successes and wishes unwished as I blew a kiss in the wrong direction and then shifted my eyes back to you only to see your hand caressing the door knob and your eyes screaming for mercy from the obsessive psycho ex. No worries, I stand out of your way, off to the side, and you for merely a second linger in that gaping threshold, the door between the present and the future. We are separate entities on parallel paths; all the tact you lacked I more than compensated for, to be sure.
No worries. Too many nights has the panic flushed red my flesh and dampered my enthusiasm as the veins in grand conspiracy with my heart pumped every bit of blood into my cheeks and in my throat, where my heart perched in its plea for attention, banging impatient legs against that wall, kicking fiercely as a healthy fetus.
But even people who love bad news do relish in the good news, too: Nick is not the consolation prize and daily he disproves my original theory, my [incorrect] assumption that he wanted pot and sex and little else. Our connection ever deepens and reveals itself to be more than a tiny creek gurgling seaward; it is a great roaring river carrying us beyond the realm of lust and into mutual security and affection. Thus against you I hold no grudge, and how could I? We forever share a leaky rowboat.
No worries. Too many nights has the panic flushed red my flesh and dampered my enthusiasm as the veins in grand conspiracy with my heart pumped every bit of blood into my cheeks and in my throat, where my heart perched in its plea for attention, banging impatient legs against that wall, kicking fiercely as a healthy fetus.
But even people who love bad news do relish in the good news, too: Nick is not the consolation prize and daily he disproves my original theory, my [incorrect] assumption that he wanted pot and sex and little else. Our connection ever deepens and reveals itself to be more than a tiny creek gurgling seaward; it is a great roaring river carrying us beyond the realm of lust and into mutual security and affection. Thus against you I hold no grudge, and how could I? We forever share a leaky rowboat.