I don’t even need to kiss.
But I do anyway? & I showed late to a
dark lawn with a poet reading from the scrolling light of a smartfone. I was
quiet, in ambience.
eyecontact unwavering. And sitting next to me,
introduced, and lovely because from us the conversation then readily flowed. In the grass with jars
& cups of wine, like oldest friends sharing knowings all together too easy.
Maybe it is easier with a boy. I haven’t met anyone like that who I’d like to
just sit by and keep talking to; the girls I know in some sorts because of how
easy it is for us to just be. But he it was like a lost brother of mine. Then breakfast, sleepless,
and it was a depressing breakfast, in that the breakfast was depressed. Eggs in
a weird isolated pile, a couple of biscuits that didn’t fit anywhere, some sad potatoes. We only go places for
geriatrics. And hopefully will. It is exciting and we can’t be. We are a
secret, a secret shared with bars & the heavens & some select northend
streets. Our bicycle seats & our diaries. He asks me questions. No, he just
listens. We can’t talk anymore about the good that feels, or the beauty of
faces. I can’t think about the feeling of a hand pressed hard against a low-back, or the clench of small arms. Golden beard, Nordic eyes. But our
smiles! the best, contagious. Not for those long
distances and uninvolved. I got through a day of clenching my lust-carved jaws,
of hiding my heartattack chest. And just the saying of the bare-minimal, just
that I like it, I want to be best friends, I want to. I have blood-filled
veins, after all, and a heart that shakes and pounds, and legs which want to
wrap around, and a mouth that kisses with all of itself. I am not there, there,
there. I am older now, smarter. I am not in love, I am in love. I am in love
with every second, sometimes. Since Sunday night. I am in love with time
elapsing, with an everpresent future, with the thoughts that a body feels! The
movement, the passions, the lust embrace that I KNOW isn’t gone, has just been
hibernating, has not been there, at all, real. It might not be he; he I like so
much and feel so connected to, really, like everything is just there and so
honest & obvious.
It’s 28 or never baby.
