The snow hanging heavy on the branches was beatiful, the way the limbs shivered and twinkled and blinked in the streetlamp, and the way that you grabbed onto my arm to save me from roaring taxicabs.
That longest night. Walking down the sidewalk with my nose buried in your shoulder, whispering to bones. And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
Standing still at the end of the shining hallway, listening to whispering: I'll come back for you. A little girl. The neat white line of the part in her hair, a division of pigtail from pigtail. The thickness of her chubby fingers, the way they laced through the bars; the brightness of her eye and of her cheek. Her little white stockings spilled onto the gray floor.
The simple warmth of a hand. The simple warmth of my back. Fingers splayed out, spider webbed against my bare ribs. Supporting. Pushing. I take a breath, I look over my shoulder.
The lucid lines of water, clear and clean. The murmur against the rocks. Washing clean.
Over the lip of the bridge curl your tones, curl your feet. Up the strong line of the leg, drips water.
Am I learning?
I look over my shoulder. Watch you hurdling up stairs. Your long legs arching, reaching. The tendonds of your arms, how clearly they cleave and bend at the elbows, tight and taut.
A neat triangle, dimpling, forming from the muscles on your back while you do a morning stretch, reaching your arms over your head with this sigh.
Your black button hair.
Your hands, unwinding.
Do you remember that couple? Standing under the crouched silver dome. Eyes closed. Feeling. She had a handful of wite lillies; his was busy holding his hat on his head; tis saccharine oblivion--
The thick dot of a mole on your right hand, a skip away from the swelling arch of your wrist.
I am losing the blurred urgency of youth. The urgency you left behind.
Begin here this time: Springtime.
The sound of the carousel, far away. The windows open. The curtains trailing like ghosts over the carpet, whispering. Silent, wordless. Waiting for an answer.
A sinful inkblot on your cheek. The careful field of sandpaper, stubble, roughing your skin.
Do you remember the smell of dandelions? The way your voice felt, low in your throat? The way it tasted; the plush velveteen taste of your mouth?
I am learning to be slow.
I am learning to be more careful, move careful; more carefully.
The unexpected clean beauty of the white sheets stretched across your bed.
The clear stretched miles of your skin. A thousand cuts, abandoned; a real roadmap of scars.
I traced the scars with fingertips, followed behind with lips. I followed along the hard ridge of your thick, around the raised scallop of your hipbone.
Stiff organized hallways. Miles of carpet, endless division: wall floor wall ceiling; repeat.
The thick throb of the walls. The sick sweet smell of the tile. Tasting, lips parting; fingertips.
Two eyes on two: tasting mine, lids parting; the long feathered lines of your eyelashes, brushing.
Butterfly kisses.
Catching ladybugs between barred fingers.
Letting go. The light in your eyes, reflecting.
What are we waiting for if not for now?
And how surely if I have ever been in love, it was with you.
_____________________________________
me at my most dull
me at crumpled brown:
me at my most predictible.
(There's a book that I re-reread. Makes me want to change so much about myself, or at least get off my ass and fucking do something. Let's see how long this brief mania lasts.)
pirogies tonight. I'm backsliding.
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