Late And Early

You pull me onto you, on top of you, and the moment just before my mouth meets yours feels like a deep intake of breath; it is like you have jumped in from some great height, and these kisses crash and break over your head. Like you are drowning, but without the panic and distress. We are both submerged, breathing in water, and our lungs adapt and we can open our eyes and watch the strange undersea world lit up around us.

The word frottage tastes like too-sweet tea, and you are something charged, something almost-too-hot to touch; your body against mine liquifies me, molton-cored, in a way that could coat your fingertips, make them shine, residual. (Sinking, sinking, and the struggle to stay down, deep-sunken, to not float back to the surface, chilled.) And the tiny porcelain feeling of our teeth, when they knock against each other. And this was only unexpected strange, for me, for you, for both of us. (And the lines you cross inside yourself are non-existent on the broad map of my body; my skin is borderless and open, there are no fences here.) The things we talk about are hilarious, absurd, and the contrast makes everything saturated, denser (in a fine and filling way). Moments when desperation is like honey, sweetly coating everything it touches.

I want to steal one of your shirts -- I think about this later, while I´m packing -- and feel you (other times, when everything is confused and distant and somewhere else) close against me. You leave me feeling warm and like something (briefly, perhaps, but still) settled, quiet inside my mind.

I fall asleep, thick and dreamless, for several hours after you leave, and when I wake up -- sudden, blurry -- it is 2:00am, and I get up and stand beneath the shower spray, too-hot and feeling things unravel deep inside me, and I stay up almost all night, after -- packing and re-packing and remembering every little detail that needs remembering before I leave. You tell me that you´re excited for me to have this month that makes the remaining eleven of them bearable, and I hate that this is true (but I cannot deny it, even if I want to).

I´m on a plane, somewhere in-between and nowhere, and the man in the aisle seat (and empty seat between us) is going home to Sweden, and smiles in a way that makes me want to touch him; he seems continually just about to tell me something amazing, something huge and real and true and secret (but he doesn´t, and we simply beam at each other every time our eyes catch, saying nothing, not really talking more at all). In the air, not any place, on my way to gather moments, days, like nuts and fruit and bits of something sweet -- glut myself, and fill my pockets, making stores of something to sustain me through all the long other months ahead.

And when we land, not yet 7:00, early morning, the darkness is something real, like velvet, and when I get outside, waiting for the bus, I look up at the sky and watch my breath hang there, pause, and disappear.