(no subject)
This is how we live, in unplanned minutes, with scraped knees and empty green bottles and occasional despondency.
Dirty hair and insect carcasses and strewn-about work clothes.
Organic produce long-forgotten, discarded gas receipts, removed rings and a necklace I'll have to untangle later.
What we wore to the pool, sopping, hanging over the side of your terrace, and
music in the background, unspoken nervousness, a glass stem that I pirouette with two fingers when I'm jealous or otherwise uncomfortable.
A pile of our intermingling shoes by the door, and are you okay? Is something wrong?
(and my displeasure towards your reaction, but I had to ask because you weren't speaking),
and my fervor for you to speak easily and continuously .
I like to follow your spine when you're facing the window and we have nothing to do:
"cervical, thoracic, lumbar" (I'll always remember them now)
Your skin is mine and adoration settles undetectably in this room, in its dusty corners and in between your vertebrae.
If I ask you to tell me a secret, you won't have one, but I'll discover one later on my own.
We are here,
just me,
and you,
and my kite-like thoughts
and your simple words,
gravid and absolute.
(7/2010)
