i've grown accustomed to missing you, darling
a one-day-home phone call and the boy's gone again, i know i could never compete with the road. off for a week, or two, or three, he'll write. so a goodbye dance amongst parasol-flowers, and three hours in bed with his (warmsoftsmooth) skin, scratched jazz, and french toast. lou reed sang us sunday morning, and after hours making love beneath thin summer sheets (can we really make something that might not be there?), he arose for a drink and i wrapped myself in absence. opening my eyes to the slow sound of 'trouble' (set me free, i have seen your face and it's too much too much for me), a rush of emotions fell silent to my cheeks, cat stevens singing loud and sad to my small salty tears and c's hands travelling gently across my back, comforting me until the last notes dissolved. i desire: cameras for eyes and film reel for veins- click! august blue and rolling clouds and telephone wires near grey lines of mountains and- click! his form crouched so quietly in tall grass beyond me, kneeling to secretly watch while i twisted him bouquets and hummed devendra and- click! the sun tangled strands of his hair on my face and the freckle on the far-left-tip of his forehead and our private half laugh before kissing. i want to capture every ounce of us and drift off to eyelid slideshows of his smile every night...i find myself filling page after page with moments i'm desperate to remember