will war away
no names, although i have two very defined characters in my mind. pg. 710 words of love and morning salutations.
inspired by the kind of love in these two prompts: nov 11 7 and oct 20 07.
when i say you fill my day with butterflies and fireflies i'm thinking that this might not be so nice to other people and i am so glad that we are us, and not them because i can hold you in my arms while you tell me about the callouses in your fingers from straining too hard. then we will make dinner and talk about bullshit world politics to feel like we're an important link of the chain instead of the misfits who got together and predicted a riot and you will say, i used your toothbrush while you were away.
and again, disgust is so far from being my first and only reaction to this, especially when you're standing in the middle of our personal clutter of a house in cartoon underwear and a shirt with the name of a place we never visited, like nassau or i love new york. you say it next to a million things, a shopping cart line of how you are when i'm not here and i want to kiss you just so you stop talking about it. i love you all of the time but i love you least when you're without me. i don't think 'when we're apart' because that's two very different things. sometimes we're apart but we're together, and sometimes you're alone but i'm thinking of you. but you talk about the y and that teenager with constant bedhair and i let you have my ear for a while, as long as you let me have the articulate words of your hands as you speak.
we sleep without sex and make love in our sleep.
there's a silent holocaust every morning creeping into our bed as we sleep and i'm thinking that morning is the only time when love is valid, because the sun blinds us and there's no way that this is all a vision instead of all this real life hoedown poets talk about. i will war away by smelling the hair you haven't washed in two days and fitting my knees to the back of yours.
you kind of look like anne frank in the way that you're a book with a tacit ending. i know that some people have already figured out where you end and begin (and it has to be in that order, because something must die for another one to live and i think what died to give room for you was a bouquet of proud yellow wallflowers and someone going on a thelma and louise tangent), but. but the truth is, you're like my palm. i can never really know whether palm-readers are carnival bullshit or someone's desperate greed for immediate knowledge. and if the latter is truth, i still can't know whose greed this is and, trust me, this is a matter of great importance because a boy with an ice cream cone has a different type of greed than that of a man standing atop the empires building and talking on the phone. so i chose to explore you but never quite remember my sightings, and to hold my own greed, the one of a man whose ship sank while no one was watching, like binoculars as my hand dips between your legs.
as i dream, you clutch me tighter and i am suddenly clearly aware of the fact that i am projecting a hologram on the ceiling. it says, I MISSED YOU.
and with the same intensity, i know that the words you type onto my skin with your cold toes in your own sign language are something like I COOKED FOR TWO EVERY NIGHT THAT YOU WERE GONE.
and then we wake up and you tell me all about what you dreamed and this time i want to kiss you not because i want you to be quiet, but because your hands are moving with such energy that the orange juice ends up spilled all over the maple table.
our love defies gravity in how it's like light (a wave or a particle or something too complex for our simple minds) but never ever uniform, sometimes too heavy and sometimes too light. i love you all of the time but sometimes i love you the most.
inspired by the kind of love in these two prompts: nov 11 7 and oct 20 07.
when i say you fill my day with butterflies and fireflies i'm thinking that this might not be so nice to other people and i am so glad that we are us, and not them because i can hold you in my arms while you tell me about the callouses in your fingers from straining too hard. then we will make dinner and talk about bullshit world politics to feel like we're an important link of the chain instead of the misfits who got together and predicted a riot and you will say, i used your toothbrush while you were away.
and again, disgust is so far from being my first and only reaction to this, especially when you're standing in the middle of our personal clutter of a house in cartoon underwear and a shirt with the name of a place we never visited, like nassau or i love new york. you say it next to a million things, a shopping cart line of how you are when i'm not here and i want to kiss you just so you stop talking about it. i love you all of the time but i love you least when you're without me. i don't think 'when we're apart' because that's two very different things. sometimes we're apart but we're together, and sometimes you're alone but i'm thinking of you. but you talk about the y and that teenager with constant bedhair and i let you have my ear for a while, as long as you let me have the articulate words of your hands as you speak.
we sleep without sex and make love in our sleep.
there's a silent holocaust every morning creeping into our bed as we sleep and i'm thinking that morning is the only time when love is valid, because the sun blinds us and there's no way that this is all a vision instead of all this real life hoedown poets talk about. i will war away by smelling the hair you haven't washed in two days and fitting my knees to the back of yours.
you kind of look like anne frank in the way that you're a book with a tacit ending. i know that some people have already figured out where you end and begin (and it has to be in that order, because something must die for another one to live and i think what died to give room for you was a bouquet of proud yellow wallflowers and someone going on a thelma and louise tangent), but. but the truth is, you're like my palm. i can never really know whether palm-readers are carnival bullshit or someone's desperate greed for immediate knowledge. and if the latter is truth, i still can't know whose greed this is and, trust me, this is a matter of great importance because a boy with an ice cream cone has a different type of greed than that of a man standing atop the empires building and talking on the phone. so i chose to explore you but never quite remember my sightings, and to hold my own greed, the one of a man whose ship sank while no one was watching, like binoculars as my hand dips between your legs.
as i dream, you clutch me tighter and i am suddenly clearly aware of the fact that i am projecting a hologram on the ceiling. it says, I MISSED YOU.
and with the same intensity, i know that the words you type onto my skin with your cold toes in your own sign language are something like I COOKED FOR TWO EVERY NIGHT THAT YOU WERE GONE.
and then we wake up and you tell me all about what you dreamed and this time i want to kiss you not because i want you to be quiet, but because your hands are moving with such energy that the orange juice ends up spilled all over the maple table.
our love defies gravity in how it's like light (a wave or a particle or something too complex for our simple minds) but never ever uniform, sometimes too heavy and sometimes too light. i love you all of the time but sometimes i love you the most.