Monday, June 28, 2010

red hot.

At any given point in the last few days, if I were be home, I would be in underwear sitting in front of a fan. To say that it is hot would be an understatement. As LM and I patiently await the arrival of our AC units, we've been experiencing our 4th floor, East to
West oriented apartment in ways that feel so violating. I find respite upon entering any subway (one of the few things MTA does well), as weary commuters, with despair-filled eyes, are wont to do. Glorious, excessive cold until, as with an oven, the doors open and the wafting heat hits my face as I walk out and up to a sagging city in haze.

Yesterday, as we waited through the Mexico-Argentina game and a good hour afterwards, we were convinced our pizza delivery was delayed by some Do The Right Thing shower/quickie diversion.

I wanted to write a letter, but for legitimate reasons, avoided. As you, or someone once said, you write for your audience. At points I write into the oblivion while at others I write to you and/or you, etc. Generally, even years down the line, I know to whom the letter is written. Regardless of whether I know half of who or what I was exactly referring to. I suppose in ways they are all written to me, but I imagine at times that deep down, simultaneously writing to you somewhat fools my head into believing that you will now know the ins and outs of my intimate mind. An actual letter is the same thing, for here I will freely let you inside, but only for a peek. It still feels so secret.

Many thoughts rumbled through as coursing to a beat brought upon the man who holds current status of personal sage, Mr. James Murphy and the fucking epic album This is Happening. It's problematic as I tend to get a crazed glimmer in my eyes gushing about the intricate working of the man, his skill to put to words the half-formed thoughts that cause me to wake at odd hours, and his ability to save the dance floor.

I rode into the city to find relieve in a dark, cool cave with Breathless. Reading the small gestures, diverted glances and tug as memories so familiar, but anchored away. Remember the moments as we pulled the covers over our heads, moving eyes slowly over stomach and knee, rising chest and sloping curves, skin pulled taught and the soft pulse up a delicate neck? The light muffled through closely-knit sheets, casting light as a glowing cavern where our feet touch and lips meet. Holding the sheet high enough overhead to speak or hold silence. Je veux votre visage.

"Quand nous avons parlé, j'ai parlé de moi, vous ai parlé de vous, quand nous devrions nous être parlés."

But, with you, it's not like that.


Blogger damion said...

we do what we can

1:57 AM  

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