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Kiss, Kiss, Kiss
Feb. 2nd, 2010 11:46 pmI imagine that you get up and walk over to me. The sun is shining in our eyes; I can tell because you blink away. It seems as though a tear is escaping from the corner of your eye, but maybe that’s just the light. You kiss me, gently.
I rock in my rocking chair. You sit on my lap, and we rock together, like some demented runaway rocking horse. You tell me that I’ve been sick for a long time. I know this is true. I feel pale, like something that’s just been exhausted by the fight, an invisible struggle with illness.
As if I’ve just surfaced from a near-deadly fever, and now I am floating gently, a pale oval, on the top of the water, being carried along until I reach the shore, or some beautiful maiden, like you, receives me into your hands, sudden straggly hair you occur upon and touch like sea weeds.
I feel it in my bones. I haven’t been well. I’ve been a bird with a broken wing, inclined to either death or a chance recovery.
You seem to read my thoughts, you smile. It’s lovely how your eyes crinkle up when you smile. You think that it’ll age you, but I think you won’t age because of it.
I feel young and old at the same time. I feel like I’ve known you forever. Maybe I just met you.
You bring me tea in a chipped cup; it tastes like your tears. You have told me my poetry is pretentious. Put to the executioner’s block all my good intentions, wasted blood and severed heads.
I got dressed in a daze that day. I wore a crochet dress, those white zebra leggings you like so much. Like ’em all you want, darling, today I’m covering my legs with them. We went for a walk along the beach. So cold out, the sand like white pulverized power. The sun is out but radiates with the coldness of sunny winter days – crisp, biting, a kind of compromise. That old man by the stand with the crooked smile said something to me, but the words were tossed away by the wind. Who is that man?
You ran and ran on the white sand, your unwashed hair streaming out behind you, laughing and tossing your head back and doing your “Wild Things” howl. Tell me, sweetheart, where are the wild things? I think they live in my heart, in yours, in both of ours together, and the white shine of the bittersweet hollow moon.
“I’ll eat you up, I love you so,” you said so seriously, pulling my scarf towards you and me into your embrace. Your jacket smells cold; of outside. You kissed me, kissed me, kissed me.
I think kisses are overrated. I would rather have the small of my back tickled, just so, or the nape of my neck caressed, a cold hand cupped beneath my rounded cheek. When I looked up, I thought I saw our darkened room for a second.
There’s our house. Stamping of feet on the mat inside. Hot chocolate. Not tea. Never the cup of tears. You grabbed me and we laughed, pretty much over nothing. The books on the shelf all fell down, in a row like obedient dominos. Why? The tuxedo cat, little Viola, runs across the room. Must have been her. Nothing else.
We lay curled up on the sofa, two sickle cells, little half-moons side by side. I know what love is. It must be you on a summer day coming in from the garden with roses. Something trite and sentimental like that. There’s no need explaining. No use, even. It’s a million different things. I never was sure before. Now I don’t even care about the worrying, and wondering. I have annihilated all my philosophy. Even the poetry. I was the self-incendiary, you were the fire that roared through destroying all the papers I bent and broke my back over. I’m beyond aging and growing now. You say a word and I shiver, inside and out. I bend down, about to be sick, or is it about to get better?
I wake up. Forever.
I rock in my rocking chair. You sit on my lap, and we rock together, like some demented runaway rocking horse. You tell me that I’ve been sick for a long time. I know this is true. I feel pale, like something that’s just been exhausted by the fight, an invisible struggle with illness.
As if I’ve just surfaced from a near-deadly fever, and now I am floating gently, a pale oval, on the top of the water, being carried along until I reach the shore, or some beautiful maiden, like you, receives me into your hands, sudden straggly hair you occur upon and touch like sea weeds.
I feel it in my bones. I haven’t been well. I’ve been a bird with a broken wing, inclined to either death or a chance recovery.
You seem to read my thoughts, you smile. It’s lovely how your eyes crinkle up when you smile. You think that it’ll age you, but I think you won’t age because of it.
I feel young and old at the same time. I feel like I’ve known you forever. Maybe I just met you.
You bring me tea in a chipped cup; it tastes like your tears. You have told me my poetry is pretentious. Put to the executioner’s block all my good intentions, wasted blood and severed heads.
I got dressed in a daze that day. I wore a crochet dress, those white zebra leggings you like so much. Like ’em all you want, darling, today I’m covering my legs with them. We went for a walk along the beach. So cold out, the sand like white pulverized power. The sun is out but radiates with the coldness of sunny winter days – crisp, biting, a kind of compromise. That old man by the stand with the crooked smile said something to me, but the words were tossed away by the wind. Who is that man?
You ran and ran on the white sand, your unwashed hair streaming out behind you, laughing and tossing your head back and doing your “Wild Things” howl. Tell me, sweetheart, where are the wild things? I think they live in my heart, in yours, in both of ours together, and the white shine of the bittersweet hollow moon.
“I’ll eat you up, I love you so,” you said so seriously, pulling my scarf towards you and me into your embrace. Your jacket smells cold; of outside. You kissed me, kissed me, kissed me.
I think kisses are overrated. I would rather have the small of my back tickled, just so, or the nape of my neck caressed, a cold hand cupped beneath my rounded cheek. When I looked up, I thought I saw our darkened room for a second.
There’s our house. Stamping of feet on the mat inside. Hot chocolate. Not tea. Never the cup of tears. You grabbed me and we laughed, pretty much over nothing. The books on the shelf all fell down, in a row like obedient dominos. Why? The tuxedo cat, little Viola, runs across the room. Must have been her. Nothing else.
We lay curled up on the sofa, two sickle cells, little half-moons side by side. I know what love is. It must be you on a summer day coming in from the garden with roses. Something trite and sentimental like that. There’s no need explaining. No use, even. It’s a million different things. I never was sure before. Now I don’t even care about the worrying, and wondering. I have annihilated all my philosophy. Even the poetry. I was the self-incendiary, you were the fire that roared through destroying all the papers I bent and broke my back over. I’m beyond aging and growing now. You say a word and I shiver, inside and out. I bend down, about to be sick, or is it about to get better?
I wake up. Forever.
