written in the truthful fug of cold medication and vicks vaporub
the handsome man i like to stake a claim on is out there in that big somewhere, for a night out.
here i am, in wonder woman pyjamas and a dressing gown, big woolly socks and mussed up hair... laying in bed, then prowling the house, then coughing and sneezing... and kinda thinking about him.
this is a pleasure i choose to share with nobody. he's the constant in my life. we make each other mad then it softens.
when i think of his face it feels like this:
an elastic band stretched across my ribcage. every time i think of his face and the way he hugs me... i feel a 'ping' like someone has cut the elastic band.
i try to gather warmth in my bed, start to doze off, only to think he's there and start talking to him through the dim red mists of my fever. on waking, he's not there, obviously. but can he hear what i've been telling him?
i like it when he texts me to tell me what he's eating for dinner. even though i have to stop myself wondering who he's eating with, where all the girls are sitting pretty. i imagine predatory paws creeping out to ensnare, like a cat reaching for a mouse from behind bars.
i like it when he texts me, tipsy, at two in the morning just to tell me what he wouldn't give to kiss me at that moment. it woke me up, i don't mind.
i like it when he takes control. pulls me this way and that by my hair... gently but firmly disciplining me for becoming wild in his presence. i buckle under his hands, yet always try to fight my corner.
this feels like vaseline on old leather. what started off dry, crackling and fragile, is massaged with something soothing. turns the cracks and dryness into smoothness and a gentle, soft, comforting familiarity... i like that.
he is perfect in my eyes. his flaws make it more so, as i hope mine do. sometimes i just want to melt into him, like butter into toast.
i like to be able to kiss his eyelids, his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his neck, his chin. kiss the parts that may be passed by without thought.
i don't know whether or not he appreciates my adoration. he says he doesn't, but i like to think he's lying. or that he at least doesn't mind.
my feet are firmly pointed in his direction. and they'll not stop walking towards him, not until he calls time, or until the earth falls from the atmosphere like a marble from a child's pocket. he should know this.
one day there will be parks and daylight, shops and cinemas. there will be department stores, ducks and trains. but for now there are cars, midnight, glowing lights afar, cigarette smoke in the winter air.
the venue matters not. what matters is the company. if my time with him were enshrouded in darkness always, i would not give a damn. because i think we create light, a bright flame, in the space where something black has roamed awhile.
he rests his legs over mine, i rest my head on the side of his seat and languish in the sensation that is his mouth on mine.
that place would not be special if it were not with him.
none of this would be special if it were not with him.
it is he, and me, and our light...
that makes this what it is.
the handsome man i like to stake a claim on is out there in that big somewhere, for a night out.
here i am, in wonder woman pyjamas and a dressing gown, big woolly socks and mussed up hair... laying in bed, then prowling the house, then coughing and sneezing... and kinda thinking about him.
this is a pleasure i choose to share with nobody. he's the constant in my life. we make each other mad then it softens.
when i think of his face it feels like this:
an elastic band stretched across my ribcage. every time i think of his face and the way he hugs me... i feel a 'ping' like someone has cut the elastic band.
i try to gather warmth in my bed, start to doze off, only to think he's there and start talking to him through the dim red mists of my fever. on waking, he's not there, obviously. but can he hear what i've been telling him?
i like it when he texts me to tell me what he's eating for dinner. even though i have to stop myself wondering who he's eating with, where all the girls are sitting pretty. i imagine predatory paws creeping out to ensnare, like a cat reaching for a mouse from behind bars.
i like it when he texts me, tipsy, at two in the morning just to tell me what he wouldn't give to kiss me at that moment. it woke me up, i don't mind.
i like it when he takes control. pulls me this way and that by my hair... gently but firmly disciplining me for becoming wild in his presence. i buckle under his hands, yet always try to fight my corner.
this feels like vaseline on old leather. what started off dry, crackling and fragile, is massaged with something soothing. turns the cracks and dryness into smoothness and a gentle, soft, comforting familiarity... i like that.
he is perfect in my eyes. his flaws make it more so, as i hope mine do. sometimes i just want to melt into him, like butter into toast.
i like to be able to kiss his eyelids, his nose, his mouth, his cheeks, his neck, his chin. kiss the parts that may be passed by without thought.
i don't know whether or not he appreciates my adoration. he says he doesn't, but i like to think he's lying. or that he at least doesn't mind.
my feet are firmly pointed in his direction. and they'll not stop walking towards him, not until he calls time, or until the earth falls from the atmosphere like a marble from a child's pocket. he should know this.
one day there will be parks and daylight, shops and cinemas. there will be department stores, ducks and trains. but for now there are cars, midnight, glowing lights afar, cigarette smoke in the winter air.
the venue matters not. what matters is the company. if my time with him were enshrouded in darkness always, i would not give a damn. because i think we create light, a bright flame, in the space where something black has roamed awhile.
he rests his legs over mine, i rest my head on the side of his seat and languish in the sensation that is his mouth on mine.
that place would not be special if it were not with him.
none of this would be special if it were not with him.
it is he, and me, and our light...
that makes this what it is.
