June 6, 2003
Maze
I like the weight of your hand in the small of my back, and though I am not sleeping, as you are, I am dreaming.
In ten years, we might have children. Little ones, maybe with my wild hair and your square jaw...? Poets, maybe, or cynics? In my dream we named the second son after you. Three boys, in all.
I laid in bed next to you, a mother and a wife, and asked for a little girl.
I cringe now, in remembrance, but at the time that fragile warmth was fueled by the presence of your body so close, of that casual arm. Your fingers tightened in my flesh, grew loose again. Were you dreaming, too?
Someone needs to hold me back, pin me to this earth. I drift between work and highway and hearth, lighting fires as I go. The books burn the best; it isn't as though anyone reads anymore. I've filled my belly with bits of you, strong coffee and mint ice cream. Remember? Last night with flinching eyes and desperate hands, the careful guidance, you whispered into my hair that you loved me.
Who could say that such a proclamation, at such a moment, could be wrong? Or foul? It was the best of times.
It's like you always said it was, without ever really saying. It's as I thought it would be, this love, when I don't let my years of doubt get in the way.
I like that the hair on your legs can tickle me awake. I like kissing you sleepy-eyed.
astera at 2:57 p.m.