April 17, 2003
Requiem
Perhaps it was the bathroom light that woke you. The sounds of my showering? Dressing? My desperate search for socks?
You stretched your limbs, the blanket pulled aside to reveal your bare chest, ivory skin. Your hair flattened black and mussed from sleeping, your eyes seeking.
You asked me for some water.
And I kissed you, before I left. Your forehead, your lips, your left shoulder. You made content, half asleep sounds. I shut the door behind me, bottling you up for my return.
The drive is never too bad. This morning I took your loaned money and bought 8 dollars worth of gas and chocolate milk. I think about you as I drink, but I think about you most of the time.
Wasn't it almost as though the house were ours? For a few days I carried around your keys, played patiently video games, waiting for you to come home. You are my home, so it wasn't entirely right without you there.
I stocked the refrigerator with fruit and juice, never going hungry, save for sometimes your skin.
Was it only this morning? Just last week?
Let's live together. In Germany. In one of those quaint little buildings you are always talking about. I'll teach advanced English, saving me from having to learn a third language.
We were dancing in the living room with the carpet pulled up and the furniture stacked in the kitchen. Your grace amazes me, and I think at some point my smile became something like the sun. My kisses burned holes in your cheeks. Your whispers were still hot in my ears, and it is this warmth that I take now to bed, to wait for you to join me.
astera at 1:03 a.m.