Hey Boy

Hey Boy

I don’t stare at your knuckley hands
And imagine how they would feel
Along my neck, and across my cheeks
And behind my ears while I try to breath

I don’t watch the way your fingers move
To feel things out and start to woo
I don’t weaken when I see the lines of age
Across your shyly smiling face

I don’t notice when our bodies touch
When we stand together in the sun
And obviously when we talk about porn
It doesn’t ever turn me on

It’s totally innocent when we talk about sex
And the juiciest details of our past
I get no joy from erotic imagery
I don’t ever picture the woman as me’

Im not intrigued by your horniness
Or the fact that we both fall in love like this
Or that we get on like kindred spirits
Or that ive been waiting for a guy just like this
Im not into this at all.

Bellow My Bellybutton

Bellow My Bellybutton

Bruised lips tingle
can't help but think
of hands sliding roughly over hips
and of breathing so heavy I could choke
on mouthfuls of wanting
You

Those looks you give
that say you're going
to have it your way
those looks
make the world spin and my heart beat
and mouth water
and teeth sink
into shoulders and arms and neck
and want more and more and more
of you

You wrap me up
and make me live in the space
between sighs and groans
your arms and lips and heart
on your fingertips
that trace the places deepest
inside of me
on top of me

Legs against thighs
a remedy for the burn
some where bellow my bellybutton
where lips have brushed
and fingers push into spaces
they never knew they could
and you
You
You make me break into tiny pieces
that feel
so damn good

Wet Jeans

Wet Jeans

embarrasing
but just seeing your name on my newsfeed got me wet in the jeans
not because you wrote me a love note
or tagged me in something meaningful
or anything like that at all
just your name
to be reminded that you are in the universe
somewhere
now, in europe, sitting, somewhere, drinking something
surely absorbed in your moment
i'm here. surrounded by snow
in my wet jeans
and wondering when this 
can be in real life
instead of just on my screen
and in my jeans
come home.

Not Kissing You

It has been a number days since we were sitting in Parc la Fountaine, since I read you that story, since you offered me a lychee fruit and since you said “I think that went very well, like your French the other day”. When you smiled after that, we were standing a few feet from each other and I immediately regretted not kissing you while we were sitting on the grass beside each other. I was not afraid. Please don’t think that. I had had breath that was marred by too much coffee and spoiled by afternoon beer and although there was more than one perfect moment to do so, I did not want our first kiss to leave the memory of that taste that was in my mouth… now...well, now, I continue to think about the sun that snuck from behind the clouds to punctuate the pause in that perfect moment, the claw marks left by your cat on your inner thigh, the gentle way your bangs blew into your face and the feeling of wanting to hold you close.

Bring your toy along?

Bring your toy along?

....if you're still on for lunch wednesday? :) Meet at the usual time and usual place?

It was so nice to re-connect last night.... sooooo over-due! ....though, next time, I really want to focus on getting you one of those orgasms I keep hearing about! At least one! :P Maybe you should bring your toy along? How do you give yourself orgasms anyways?? DO you? :P

All kidding aside; that is now my official '07 new years resolution! :P
Plenty of time to get it!

Rope ladders and nostalgia

Rope ladders and nostalgia

>> the stoop was particularly scented that evening. a pungent longing that brought me only back to a memory of bus careening through the foothills of the himalayas. i took 5 sleeping pills that night and never felt such nostalgia for home. and in that moment, i couldnt decipher which home my body was referring to.  but that very nostalgia suffocated all logic or reason. the stoop is particularly drenched in nostalgia. a nostalgia for moments that have never occured. moments that i transpired from imagined quarry's. and knowing.

>>

>> bedouins flee like flawless memory into brazen sahara nights. a bizarre tonality left pieces scattered across the lanolium counter top. reminiscent of days that kissed ear drums with persistent rain. like the lapse of his lip across crisp white sheets. and luke warm dances that sneak across bar stools.

>>

>> i am no longer the castle that i, ever so intentionally, built over time. a tall wall and a moat. 15 alligators, all of whom i have named with sound, completely independent of any association of meaning:

>>

>> 1. oo

>> 2. ahhh

>> 3. mmmmmm

>> 4. grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

>>

>> and so on and so forth...

>>

>> 10 thousand locks and even more guards, all of which have a strange resemblance to the face that stares at me from the victorian mirror. my castle no longer.

>>

>> PART II

>>

>> penelope laps the milk from his forefinger with mercury sedated lash gaze. first only a taste, then slowly... ever slowly and then with rapid intent, she coughs a parade of pink petals. a feast bestowed on a warm park bench which belies the distinct mirage of a parisian midnight.

>>

>> the glass was neither half full nor half empty. it just was.

>>

>> busy cars knock from forks shadowed in the road. one green, one red, and one white. streaking from the midriff region and outward. a subtle tip to wrong and swerve to the right. arriving, in the same middle median caressed with petite purple flowers.

>>

>> a cottonwood tree leans to the right from the angle of a small girl sheltered under the skylight. a lopsided pig tail crushed against the felt of the old persian rug. mother stares at dust collecting on the waxy figurines under the hand dug niche that was once her sanctity. i felt nothing more vacant than the gaze of her dilated pupils scanning the room for a sign of life. and in those moments i wanted nothing more than the half lid of the roof to spill shadows from the cottonwood tree... (always leaning to the right)... and spinning an ever so fragile cotton rope ladder... to lift me, ribcage first and ankles last, to my fortress buckled in orions belt.

>>

>> penelope laps the milk from his eyes, first a tap-tap-tap... trickle... then a flood. blood rushing from the toe to the penial gland and then to the heart, simolatneously and in synch with the miles davis that eminates from the crushed velvet loveseat. with a single decimal, a slight twist of the cheekbone... his tongue unravels into the same rope ladder. harnessing her first from the ribcage, then the ankle and finally tucking her away into the fortress that is the impetus of her nostalgia for home.

An enormous pine cone

An enormous pine cone

dear friends
you are the lucky recipients of my mid-afternoon diatribe about men who grow beards (note. this applies to one specific man. he's iranian and lives next door.)

so. i'm all just doing my work
typing
thinking
networking
calling
generally being smart
or just seeming smart
either way. i'm a total big shot around here and am very busy

then my cell phone buzzes on my desk. 
sir s. himself.
he's downstairs in the hot cafe filled with hot people drinking hot coffee
he just stopped by to say hello
he found an enormous pine cone today on his courier route. so you know. 
that was exciting
he had bought me a tea. 
which in my world is kind of like an engagement ring
don't judge..

side note. my crush on him had evaporated many weeks ago 
mostly cause i got bored and he got a girlfriend

but then.
the tea. 
one last week
and now today
and what comes with the tea. 
his beard. that is growing fuller and darker

i mean come on!
tea and a beard!
and a pine cone!
what the fuck am i supposed to do with that?!

i am just a girl
sitting here
reading about love letters
sometimes writing them
then a beard grows and my celibacy remembers that it hates itself. 

so i drink the tea. 
i give him chocolate
and eat some myself 
so i don't loose my jeans in the office. 

we sip tea. 
we eat chocolate
we talk about what he is doing on valentines with his gf. 
it is, of course, lame. he had requested that she clean his bike as a gesture of love
i swoon. note. actual sarcasm here. 
imagine that
"hey baby...in order to celebrate our love would you clean my bike"
he might as well have requested a toilet bowl brush or some used dental floss. 

we sit and sip tea. 
a TED talk is screening in my office
some shiz about the planet being warm. but i'm not paying attention
cause i'm looking as his beard. 

he offers his opinion of the talk, 
"you know...it like doesn't even matter anyways. cause like the politicians...they are like ignorant or whatever...so like this is like whatever"
i say, "sam plays the part of the pessimist today"
he says, "no...it's just like you know whatever. nothing is changing"
i say, "finish your thought. you have not actually said anything. tell me what you think!"
he says, "whatever...i dunno"
i think, "is this what too much cocaine does to one's brain?"

we say goodbye
and i return to my desk...

at least that fucker got me to write something today...
plus i got a free tea

thanks for reading. 
if you made it this far
you get one gold star and cupcake.

p.s. men who flaunt their beards are rude. no offense intended daniel's.