“Watching Her As She Sits Next To The Fire, Listening To Poetry”

I showered, ate a bowl of cereal, brushed my teeth, and put on some clothes. Then it was out the door, walking to work, but really just looking for her.

Everything I knew about her turned me on. Everything else about her turned me on even more. And her thirst for words was sexier than any poem either of us ever thought of. No longer bound to the ideology of the invisible caste system or Dinner & A Movie
We were no longer strangers but what we shared was still uncertain, except that it obviously went beyond an overlap in schedules

She couldn’t possibly have understood the esoterica of Wu-Tang B-sides and early 90’s NFL references, and she didn’t try
She simply cleared her mind, and put it up in the path of my stumbling proclamations like a net, occasionally catching a word or phrase that she could see in color – and not even in the color I’d rendered it, but color vivid enough to take her on a short ride away from itineraries and the syntax of sober simple squares who had appointments to keep

I put up jumpshots, grabbing the next ball on the rack without waiting to see the result of my previous attempt, but listening closely for the
an impossible image or collision of thoughts that could fuck her in such a way that her handcuffs would crumble into dust
and this is what I said to her:

I want to make love to you today
Your body is a presence in my mind and so I can meditate even with your freckles pressed against my skin and
I will not feel your breath on my neck but in my soul
You need not weep to illuminate your melancholy
You need not laugh to remind me of your smile, for
I feel you inside me the way children can still see dinosaurs & Cherokees
I hate to brag, but if I turn down the music and listen closely
I can sometimes hear your conscience – but keep that on the down low; she thinks the way I bump that Dirty South shit is obnoxious
and she wants you to wear white on your wedding day

Drown on me – breath in me – live with me from great distances
Touch me. Forget me, only to remember me with a start
Stare at me – justify my paranoia
Hunt me. Surprise me. Remember that to a man, seduction is silk.

it is never quiet where water flows, it is never quiet where grass grows,
you are the only place I will find silence

Yes, that is what I said to her. And I meant it.

Her perfume was the last inconsistency between our reality and everyone else’s. It lingered even after I’d begun wrestling with the cruelties of ephemeral bliss.

1 comment:

Becca said...

This is beautiful Riley!
This is becca by the way. Let's be blog friends?