Camping
I made a bed of layers on our wood floors, opening our doors to simulate a real brezze running through the outside of our apartment. There were no stars overhead, just the pock-marked celling of neglected to-do's. I was focused on the death of your shoulder into your neck, the place I come together, we come together.
Our orange comforter wrapped like moss about us while wild cats roamed through the jungle just beyond our reach. They cried out at our infrigment into their world...we paid no mind.
My arms wrap you a hundred times over, back onto myself and you, over and over like all the words of the world wrapping around the equator untill the end of time. It's a funny dance of funny faces. Maybe I'm simple. That's all I need.
The music ended, the dance subsided and I drifted off in moss and love to another world...
Your hair is longer than I remember it. I love the way it curls at your ears, around your eyeline. It is just long enough for you to start to gaze out from under it. The fringe is a great boundary.
You smile, I smile. I've never seen you so happy. I don't know if anybody has. I don't remember what you said to me only me responding "I thought the very same thing about you when I was getting this." I pull from a bag a cheap picture frame. The picture for it will have to be so small. 1 inch by 3. What a wierd size it is. The golden cloth has been pulled off to reveal a cardboard inside. It still seems appropriate so I pass it to you. You're still smiling.
Your sitting on top of a block of stone as I hand it up to you. A moment later I lean up with a smile and plant it in the corner of your own where it grows, taking over your face. Still, just before the seed is in the ground your face, by your lip, look like his. I smile.
We walk together, standing closer than we should be, playfully pushing each other with the sides of our arms, laughing and enjoying each other like old friends. Two children dance on a rooftop while their olive father plays a guitar from behind the screen of the window which acts as the door to this oasis.
There is a fun house, I am smoking. I can feel myself drowning, as if in the exit tunnel of this amusment there is no air. I hear myself say "igarette-cay oke-smay."
I come too, my head under moss. We still lie in our little clearing in a Richmond apartment, millions of miles away from home...but on our way.