I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.
Drive has a way of numbing senses. For weeks on end I held pens on paper scribbling away plans for work and notes for review. The only goal being to find work, feel productive and apply myself elsewhere before the heat got to me and I might succumb to inertia.
Work I did and who’d have guessed I might love it this much? Things came at such a speed I couldn’t quite process everything as it came. Perhaps this may be the new condition of this here life of ours–we move much faster than any of us can reconcile and the quicker I move, the less I think of any other sort of life I’d rather live.
It works until I fall into your arms. The parentheses of limbs engulf this quote–a remnant of the past–for isn’t that what quotes are? Surviving words once uttered and now easily borrowed. We use it from time to time; this embrace full of would be questions is enough to tide me over to another time, another place. Your lips gentle and soft closing in on my collar bone, tracing line the sun makes before it sets.
I dare not ask the questions because everything can be fraught with meaning and when meanings collide, the conflict of answers could destroy us again. Let’s just say that now and again you lean in for a hug or sometimes your head rests upon my neck and I struggle with this desire to look at you; your eyes knowing the question written on my face and our hands resisting the urge to touch.