(no subject)
i don't believe in proper punctuation or grammar, i write as my mind thinks, don't break the flow, you know, all that.... plot lines are silly too, i like images and pure emotions
*******
we are sort of simple, he and i, with a one floor house that sprawls over a piece of pale green land - mulch beds, twiggy brown plants waiting for the sign of spring. narrow brick walkway, into the house with native american shades of red, blue, and yellow on the walls, on the fabrics. two smooth ceramic coffee mugs, mismatched breakfast plates from an old couple's yard sale. his great hand, looking so nice everywhere that it lingers - on the back of the spindly, wooden chair as he scoots it in to the table, the legs scuffing the linoleum with the yellow floral design. his hand grabbing his thatched hat that hangs on the coat rack, his whole palm cupping the top of it. the band on his turquoise ring, silver and glinting as the sun blurs through the panes of stained glass on the door.
i feel the way i wanted to feel when i was young, desperate, and wading myself out of the mess i once was - the simplicity than can sometimes be found when someone else is holding you, their hand on the back of your head, pressing you into their shoulder with a tenderness meant for children. he knows the love i missed for so many years and he wants to make it up to me. he knows that he's the only man i've trusted in so many years.
we are far away from all of them. we did not run away - we walked away quietly, with the excitement in our hearts making an internal ruckus that they could not detect, they could not track. our one story house, sprawling on a piece of pale green land and no one knocks, no one calls. no one interrupts us. the hard, rough, soulful hands that do not move away from me, the hazy amber light in the bedroom giving me thrills, his red plaid still on when he helps me undress, the fuzzy softness of flannel brushing on my skin, hands on the knobs of my shoulders, and the cold band of the turquoise ring pressing into me.
i feel the things i wanted so badly before - being loved by a man who can know what's best while we're together in these intimate ways, telling me,"let it slide, mama. let it go until the sun's up, then we'll forget it all over again." we'll forget it all over again. he makes me feel like the lover of an outlaw - he's clyde, i'm bonnie, and when the sun's up we do our wrongs, avoid the shame of our crimes - then we'll love in ways that make that life seem distant and forgettable, seem like characters we play when this is real. this is what we live for -
and he goes for me like a steady rhythm, his hair stuck flat down on the sides of his head. he tells me i love him so well and in all the right ways, he's never gonna want any other woman - no one else fills him up like this. and when the sun comes up, we're still awake, twisted together, real light overpowering the dim amber glow - and there are the deep set dusty blue eyes, the crows feet lightly etched and glistening, that maddening purple skin around his eye sockets that make me want to kiss the bone and treat him sweet.
"baby," i say, "let's sleep, because the sky says it's time to worry again." i wear his flannel shirt and unravel the mess of sheets, and he reaches under the bed for something discarded to throw on, and it is him that seems like the vulnerable one now - the one i need to baby. i hold him to me, his head resting below my collarbone, and i slide my hand down the already-plastered honey ginger hair. i call him honey - once, twice, three times - until i'm babbling and incoherent, knowing i'm right to call him honey, knowing he's good enough to me to call him honey, knowing he loves the way i call him honey.
*******
we are sort of simple, he and i, with a one floor house that sprawls over a piece of pale green land - mulch beds, twiggy brown plants waiting for the sign of spring. narrow brick walkway, into the house with native american shades of red, blue, and yellow on the walls, on the fabrics. two smooth ceramic coffee mugs, mismatched breakfast plates from an old couple's yard sale. his great hand, looking so nice everywhere that it lingers - on the back of the spindly, wooden chair as he scoots it in to the table, the legs scuffing the linoleum with the yellow floral design. his hand grabbing his thatched hat that hangs on the coat rack, his whole palm cupping the top of it. the band on his turquoise ring, silver and glinting as the sun blurs through the panes of stained glass on the door.
i feel the way i wanted to feel when i was young, desperate, and wading myself out of the mess i once was - the simplicity than can sometimes be found when someone else is holding you, their hand on the back of your head, pressing you into their shoulder with a tenderness meant for children. he knows the love i missed for so many years and he wants to make it up to me. he knows that he's the only man i've trusted in so many years.
we are far away from all of them. we did not run away - we walked away quietly, with the excitement in our hearts making an internal ruckus that they could not detect, they could not track. our one story house, sprawling on a piece of pale green land and no one knocks, no one calls. no one interrupts us. the hard, rough, soulful hands that do not move away from me, the hazy amber light in the bedroom giving me thrills, his red plaid still on when he helps me undress, the fuzzy softness of flannel brushing on my skin, hands on the knobs of my shoulders, and the cold band of the turquoise ring pressing into me.
i feel the things i wanted so badly before - being loved by a man who can know what's best while we're together in these intimate ways, telling me,"let it slide, mama. let it go until the sun's up, then we'll forget it all over again." we'll forget it all over again. he makes me feel like the lover of an outlaw - he's clyde, i'm bonnie, and when the sun's up we do our wrongs, avoid the shame of our crimes - then we'll love in ways that make that life seem distant and forgettable, seem like characters we play when this is real. this is what we live for -
and he goes for me like a steady rhythm, his hair stuck flat down on the sides of his head. he tells me i love him so well and in all the right ways, he's never gonna want any other woman - no one else fills him up like this. and when the sun comes up, we're still awake, twisted together, real light overpowering the dim amber glow - and there are the deep set dusty blue eyes, the crows feet lightly etched and glistening, that maddening purple skin around his eye sockets that make me want to kiss the bone and treat him sweet.
"baby," i say, "let's sleep, because the sky says it's time to worry again." i wear his flannel shirt and unravel the mess of sheets, and he reaches under the bed for something discarded to throw on, and it is him that seems like the vulnerable one now - the one i need to baby. i hold him to me, his head resting below my collarbone, and i slide my hand down the already-plastered honey ginger hair. i call him honey - once, twice, three times - until i'm babbling and incoherent, knowing i'm right to call him honey, knowing he's good enough to me to call him honey, knowing he loves the way i call him honey.