Ramses
He's getting to me.
I try not to let him get to me but he still gets to me.
And by get to me, I don't mean on-my-nerves he's getting to me, or reaching-me-intellectually he's getting me.
I mean his scent is spinning spirals through my sofa, and his tires are searing streaks into my street; I mean his Hersheybrown eyes are fluttering phantom images that haunt me for hours afterwards. I mean his titillating texts are tossing thought threads through my mind, and his physical perfection is pouring pools of pink pipe dreams into the points on my paper. I mean the criss-cross lines on his hand are the perfect stamp to my white ink.
We kiss. It feels like talking.
I mean I can’t touch his lips without reading his mind, and it’s eerie because today is Friday the 13th and I keep hoping that I’ll secretly read some sort of mass-murderer thoughts so I don’t have to fall in love again. I mean that his stupid mouth is taking over my life with its light and soft and strong and weak and his tensions, apprehensions, sensations, tribulations, and I hate his stupid mouth for taking up my present time and presence of mind.
He looks so tough with that pickax as he steps up to the tall wall of bricks I’ve been laying like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t care that I built this beautiful monument with fine blocks from the ravines of my resolution not to fall in love again for a thousand years.
And sometimes he lets out this balmy laugh, and then it’s not a pickax at all that he’s carrying—it’s a pipe bomb. It’s like I’m W and he’s throwing shoes. I don’t have a chance.
My thoughts feel drunk then. I’m far from inebriated, but in those dim-witted moments I just want to tell him,
“Hey boy…wanna let you know that I dig you--and I don't even say that phrase very often because it sounds so antiquated, but even so, I totally dig you. Like with a really nice shovel. Not one that you'd see on TV and think ‘Hey, that's probably a nice shovel’, but, like, a shovel that was recommended by the guy at Home Depot or Lowe's in a vest. Those guys know what they're talking about.
Just get here now because you’re a snugglemonster and I’m not and I want to let you indulge yourself in an ungodly amount of snuggling. And I want to let you pick the movie we watch because I like your taste and you get me and I like how we have the same sense of humor. I want you to come over and pop my popcorn and I’ll let you do the whole thing because you look like one of those people who likes guessing how long it'll take to pop all the kernels. Actually, let me do it. You'll just burn the bag because most of the things in my house are quirky and I know how you can get lost in the moment.
Then you can keep on coming over and cooking me oddball variations of regular things that you learned about in culinary school like purple sauce on spaghetti. And we'll crack that bottle of bubbly. Here. I'll do it… wait, no, can you grab me a cloth? This is hurting my hand. Kay, there we go. No, just grab one glass. I'll pour it for you. No, I don't need one, I'll drink from the bottle, thanks, because I'm celebrating.”
And when he asks what for I just want to give him a blank look across the beach bench and smile about being in a lovekindofthing again.
“Babe, I’m celebrating because it's Valentine's Day and…you’re getting to me.”
I try not to let him get to me but he still gets to me.
And by get to me, I don't mean on-my-nerves he's getting to me, or reaching-me-intellectually he's getting me.
I mean his scent is spinning spirals through my sofa, and his tires are searing streaks into my street; I mean his Hersheybrown eyes are fluttering phantom images that haunt me for hours afterwards. I mean his titillating texts are tossing thought threads through my mind, and his physical perfection is pouring pools of pink pipe dreams into the points on my paper. I mean the criss-cross lines on his hand are the perfect stamp to my white ink.
We kiss. It feels like talking.
I mean I can’t touch his lips without reading his mind, and it’s eerie because today is Friday the 13th and I keep hoping that I’ll secretly read some sort of mass-murderer thoughts so I don’t have to fall in love again. I mean that his stupid mouth is taking over my life with its light and soft and strong and weak and his tensions, apprehensions, sensations, tribulations, and I hate his stupid mouth for taking up my present time and presence of mind.
He looks so tough with that pickax as he steps up to the tall wall of bricks I’ve been laying like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t care that I built this beautiful monument with fine blocks from the ravines of my resolution not to fall in love again for a thousand years.
And sometimes he lets out this balmy laugh, and then it’s not a pickax at all that he’s carrying—it’s a pipe bomb. It’s like I’m W and he’s throwing shoes. I don’t have a chance.
My thoughts feel drunk then. I’m far from inebriated, but in those dim-witted moments I just want to tell him,
“Hey boy…wanna let you know that I dig you--and I don't even say that phrase very often because it sounds so antiquated, but even so, I totally dig you. Like with a really nice shovel. Not one that you'd see on TV and think ‘Hey, that's probably a nice shovel’, but, like, a shovel that was recommended by the guy at Home Depot or Lowe's in a vest. Those guys know what they're talking about.
Just get here now because you’re a snugglemonster and I’m not and I want to let you indulge yourself in an ungodly amount of snuggling. And I want to let you pick the movie we watch because I like your taste and you get me and I like how we have the same sense of humor. I want you to come over and pop my popcorn and I’ll let you do the whole thing because you look like one of those people who likes guessing how long it'll take to pop all the kernels. Actually, let me do it. You'll just burn the bag because most of the things in my house are quirky and I know how you can get lost in the moment.
Then you can keep on coming over and cooking me oddball variations of regular things that you learned about in culinary school like purple sauce on spaghetti. And we'll crack that bottle of bubbly. Here. I'll do it… wait, no, can you grab me a cloth? This is hurting my hand. Kay, there we go. No, just grab one glass. I'll pour it for you. No, I don't need one, I'll drink from the bottle, thanks, because I'm celebrating.”
And when he asks what for I just want to give him a blank look across the beach bench and smile about being in a lovekindofthing again.
“Babe, I’m celebrating because it's Valentine's Day and…you’re getting to me.”