from far away.

the thing i want to do with you is everything.
the place i want to go, everywhere.

i get ticklish when i think about you, and
the rest of the world is fuzzy and unimportant, trying in vain to catch my attention.
my sheets are soft, but the air is thick here.
and my daydreams are traveling through the miles between us,
trying to find you,
to lie down next to you,
to touch you, even just for a second.

the thing i want to do with you is everything.
the place i want to go, everywhere. 

anywhere but here, away from you, is where i want to be.

it is the calm before the storm.

the air is still and the world is quiet, it’s tongue outstretched, taking pause.

it happens slowly, carefully; the weather cannot be rushed.

softly, hardly disrupting the silence, the flakes begin to fall:

one,

two,

ten,

then twenty,

each one an original, a token of gratitude from the sky.

the ground mirrors the clouds, grey and near bursting with snowflakes, all

swirling and sliding and fighting to be the first to fall,

the first to meet the crunch of the frosty earth waiting patiently below.

twenty,

then fifty,

then four hundred,

and it’s a blizzard; the snow focused and widespread, covering the ground with white:

a clean cold blanket,

pristine and perfect for mere moments before its surface is interrupted by

tiny feet in

too-large snowboots,

the quiet of the air pierced by

shouts and

whoops and

elated giggles.

little bodies slip and slide,

throwing snowballs and sledding on lunch trays and

making snow angel after snow angel,

thanks to the heavens for sending this gift,

this day,

which will be etched in our memories until we can play no longer,

until we must watch from inside,

remembering the taste of the

snowflakes on our tongues.

in the middle of the night,

a man is walking on the highway. 
he is trudging, really, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his breath visible among the freezing rain. he is illuminated once, then again, as the cars zoom past, some of them leaning heavily on their horns.

he walks.

his fingers fiddle with the cap of the bottle in his pocket, twisting it coyly back and forth. he knows he should save it for later. he is frustrated, impatient, wanting the warmth of the amber liquid in the back of his throat, trickling into his stomach, still full from dinner and a bottle of red wine.

he loosens his tie and wonders how he got here, on the highway at two am. he runs his thumb over the wedding ring he can no longer take off. it won’t move beyond the knuckle, a trait the jeweler told him he’d appreciate ten years from now. on this night, after this fight, he’s masochistically pleased it’s welded there; a gleaming, fourteen carat reminder of what an ass he’s been.

his hair is wet and matted. the 405 goes on for miles— he could walk to california if he wanted to. he thinks about his wife, about going home for the first time since he slammed the door behind him three hours earlier. his feet hurt and his heart is heavy. he wonders if he’d get hypothermia from sleeping under an overpass in the rain.

he thinks of her standing at the window. she’s still angry, he knows, but she’s waiting for him and he can feel it.

he stops short, remembering her face, the freckle under her left eye.
he takes one step, thinking of the weekend they spent in paris, on a whim.
his feet are pointed in the direction of her, of home.

he walks.

 

the waiting game.

these words are 
tripping off my tongue and through my fingers, which are
blistered because i’ve just picked up the guitar.
sam cooke croons over the stereo but it’s
your voice i hear, singing:

baby it’s you
honey, huh-uh-nay.

c chord, 
a minor, 
d, f, and e.
this is a song so soulful i can feel it in my teeth. 
i can taste it as it swirls around the back of my mouth and
drips gently down my throat into my stomach,
where it will settle and
swell and
fill me in a way that is
immeasurable in its pleasure

3 o’clock in the morning is just as lonely as
3 in the afternoon when you’re not around,
but i love it when i know we’re listening to the same sad songs.
they fill the distance between us until wednesday comes and i 
find my way back into your arms; 
the middle of the week has never smelled quite so sweet,

has never tasted quite so warm.