Apr 27, 2004 23:40
I want to run around a bright, sunlight-washed house on shiny new hardwood floors in just loose white tube socks, thick cotton that bunches a little above the ankles, and boy-cut underwear. And I want to stick my belly out and beat it with my fists, and stretch up and back, fists still balled. I want laziness and sex and yawns and naps and food, wholesome food; apples without the Original Sin connotation, and instead with the crinkled brown paper bag and neat napkins that came with lunch on Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and Fridays.
I want warmth from the palms of the hands. Warmth from the breath that sprouts little paradoxes on the neck, surprised little hairs roused stiffly and abruptly into cranky exclamation points by a rising blanket of gooseflesh. After a nap that's just long enough, to be gently awakened is sweet after that bitter second of transition from dreamscape to languid eyefuls. As long as the breath cradles and the palms of the hands nestle close. Next to; behind; eventually inside. No hurried prepositions today. Only possibilities and punctuation marks.