September 8, 2002
Humble Gratitude
I can't write poetry good enough for him. I have all of these visions in my head, this whirlwind two months past.
Exactly two months ago, in just a few hours, we were sitting in his white Chevrolet S-10 with the gray fuzzy interior, with 311 or Dave Matthews or Our Lady Peace or Liquido, with our faces close, and our breath hot, with our limbs itching and lips twitching, with the beginnings of something, not so much rushed as seemingly impossible to avoid, sparking in our eyes. They were locked.
"So... are we together?"
I giggle, and Mike's hand rests on my neck.
"Do you want to be together?"
"I already told you that I do."
"Okay then." I take a fold of his t-shirt in my hand. "We're together."
And we kissed. And it was over and it had begun. And I fell in love with him sometime shortly therafter.
I see in my weary mind an aerial view. We are swimming in my aunt's pool, I am in his arms and he is twirling me about, we are "dancing." We make vain attempts to kiss underwater and come up choking and laughing.
I am walking again a trail in the park, he is holding me tight against the dark and against him. We have studied a chess board, we have studied eachother. I am already thinking what I would later deny thinking. I am slowly being swallowed, his tongue is sweet and soft in my mouth. Later he will bite. And I'll like that, too.
I hear his laughter, I feel his touch. I see in my weary mind the possible end to things, but at the same time with every breath manage a prayer for the perpetuation of this love affair. He is everything he is supposed to be and I am as good as I am going to get. He makes me a braver better person.
I love him. Like a book. Like a movie. I feel like somebody else. But it's me.
Thankyou.
astera at 11:13 p.m.