I wake up late because last night we got into the gin, though it wasn’t the gin so much as the conversation which blossomed forth. Juniper and trading secrets. Palms against flesh and kisses that somehow quench as they leave you thirsty for more. There is an effortlessness about you I wish I could inhabit. Crawl inside, live inside, never leave behind. I know you think I could do it but don’t on purpose, as if flicking off a switch. I promise you that if it were so easy I’d have done it decades ago.
In the dimness of morning haze, I pour my coffee and stare out the window into the garden. In the darkness, I can just make out the white cuts of feather on a single blue jay which is perched upon the handcrafted bench, facing the roses. Its long pointed tail stretches itself all the way out, up and down in a startled motion, before he flits off under a low bush. There are creatures of night and creatures of dawn and for the life of me I swear I’m one when I could just as surely be the other.
Nested in blankets and pillows in an upstairs room, I grab my laptop and begin to type a thing I don’t see coming but let unfold anyway. Writing is a bit like improv. You just get in there and say a thing and something else related until you look back to find you’ve strung a piece together like a dangle of party lights, the ones which lit up your backyard when you were a kid. Pink and orange and yellow together were always my favorite. Summer grass and shadow puppets. Knees in the dirt and eyes wide beneath the stars. Lanterns, swimming pools, fireflies. How can it all sail by so quickly. These are the thoughts of a woman of such an age as mine.
In the back of my mind is the idea of you. You are faceless, though not without form. A beautiful, majestic form, like something cloaked in the darkness of a thousand exotic nights. I try to write but my fingers think only of typing you into being. My fingers breathing into your lungs and your body even now. My breath at the parting of wherever you come from, far beyond the deadness of this ordinary place. Dawn cascading her ribbons of soft creamy light across my skin.
There is something about you I don’t think you even know is there but it wraps itself around me, flutters itself through me like the winged expression of a sensation forbidden, the pulsing threat of the catastrophic truth of it. Its existence, a burning impossible to survive. Something which cannot help itself but to rise, up and up higher and higher, into the waiting, sun soaked sky.
. . . . . .
The title of this piece is the title of a song by Cigarettes After Sex, with whom I remain obsessed.