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in the morning, he talks about the birds. the sounds a bird makes... its echo in the frozen morning. ice covered tree limbs, sidewalks, and car tires. the way things are more beautiful when covered. magnified and intense.
he tells me i am comfortable. i imagine he means like an overweight woman: something to crawl and curl against. a source of warmth. he smiles at the suggestion of me as overweight. undresses me and smiles some more.
he won't stay long. long enough to remain as a memory. until someone else crawls under these sheets and into this skin. he wants to make me gasp a little more. i want to make him feel this is alright.
last night, it was the brightness of street lamps across blinding white snow. peeking from behind the curtains. the snow plows weight cracking the layers of snow, ice, snow. we listened like scared children.
before we fall asleep we have to be little nightmares. bits of flesh and discard. the only way anything can be expressed. like dancers we fall from position to position. we're post-traumatic pornography.
after we've finished i remember a line i didn't write: 'the snow finally fell on Muncie.' and for a moment i think to move beyond this image into something more. instead i remove him from my skin before he stains me.
a nude descending the staircase. for a glass of water, two cubes of ice. the cat's tail a ring around my ankle. my self on tip-toes to deny the cold the full range of foot. i open a curtain. and, as darkness i peek out.
as afterthoughts, we create meaning. i use my fingers to make him more than a one night stand. to make him linger. when he leaves i wash the sheets. smell his body across them one last time. toss them to the cycle.
i sit. to write. my penis falling across the leather chair like a pen to paper. both unable to create. as afterthoughts, we demand meaning. and like the birds, we make so much noise we forget to figure it out.
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| | Posted 1/29/2009 7:27 PM - 17 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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