March 31, 2003
Doors and Mauve Polish
No. I want to leave the door open, to hear you cooking, the clattering of pans upon burners and the soft imperceptible tread of be-socked feet on linoleum.
Or are you wearing shoes to keep your toes warm?
No, I want to leave the door open so that I am still in the same room with you, just down the hall, just inside the doorway, perched at your computer, the sleeves of your sweatshirt threatening to overtake my small hands as they sprint across the keyboard.
My stomach is sick with hunger and swallowed tears, despite the fact that you are heating up chili, that I cried plenty already. I wanted to cry for the sex, for the gentle tug of your fingers on my flesh, for your laughter in my right ear and your tongue slipping out to tickle me. I felt the desperation and the passion rise up, burning and weeping.
I shed only sweat.
I've left the door open and I can see into your bedroom, the crumple of my bookbag and stripped clothing at the base of your television stand. I can see the violet blink-blinking of my cell phone service light and know that I have forgotten to call my mother, and father, and brother. It's too late now, but not for everything. There are still dreams to be dreamt at your side, warmed by an idle arm, feet pressed together, my arch against your flat sole.
We'll close the door for the intimacy of toes.
astera at 11:23 p.m.