June 18, 2005 - 1:47 a.m.
I love walking home in the rain, past the 501 while S'uper Trooper bleats unabashedly out into the night, and I
sheepishly compose sonnets in my brain,
to breasts,
bound so smartly in black lace
saucy high pony tail,
messing me up, like your eyes, like the ceiling fans on full blast.
the shuffle of tracks
androgyne girl-boy, eyes are heat-seeking, locked
as if to say, these hands are capable,
just let me show you.
throats, raspy and leaving nothing to the imagination,
sex is on the mic
and as the cat wraps her tail around my throat she closes a circle of flirtation that has properly led,
to you,
waiting in sheets that are too clean for me yet,
no id, no idea
and every pure and sleazy thought comes tumbling out into sweet hugs and shy words when eyes encounter the caught thought. and it's all so innocent.
you have a wonderful throat. that isn't all. I can't say that, so instead I say something else. and none of it makes sense.
I'm old enough now to laugh and stop caring.
I think i may finally be
old enough to just be happy
to fall into bed,
feet registering yet another blister:
a sign of good times,
and impractical shoes.
no longer waiting to become myself,
watching a room fill and knowing what it all means,
those lips,
those hips,
her familiar voice,
those old hands,
these new jaw-lines
set against everything else
and the exhausted smile piled behind my eyelids,
waiting to dream and breathe and
tap out clues to myself, hoping to direct myself, like a sub-conscious
"to do" list;
revisit tonight,
its doings and undoings,
tie me into more love,
less misanthropy, sleek and careless arms,
music, mixed badly,
but still, there it is.
is that all?
that's what I would have written, rain, music, steps, skin, sweat, music, night air and liquid ago...
but now there are adjectives,
outside of this four sided box,
the body moves outside these lines
into itself. i know. you know. what.
i mean.
