Response I.

Your room is not too big, but mine was small. My little shadow cave. Yellow light and peach and marmalade. Fat kettle ready to boil, collection of mismatched china cups. could give me a minute and if the sun had down for hours but you couldn’t sleep for wanting, i’d cook you up a warm bowl of rice and lentils, pasta and pesto. I’d yearn for avocados in my hands.

“I’m suddenly so tired.”
“Always.”
“It’s your fault.”
“No. This room.”

The last day, when my room was in shambles around us, all I had left was a can of baked beans and some bread. I stole a thin half-stick of butter and fried up the bread in a forgotten pan, nuked the beans in my only clean bowl. We slurped it up sitting cross-legged on the floor across from each other, with the food in between.
Full of surprise, Sunboy dug in and said,“You can make ANYTHING taste good.”

I’m tired and I miss this and that and sleepiness is no fun when I cannot loll around indefinitely in bed, curling absentmindedly around someone else. But I’m moving and I’m seeing and I’m getting things down.

Last night, I slipped into my pink gauze tutu, covered my chest in yellow tigers, and rocked the dance floor hard. Shaun matched in neon animal prints, his gold pants and my gold shoes. The other girl in the car says, I’m a junkie. A junkie. But it’s over. No more. My bra was full of money and his smile was full of teeth. Gorgeous gay boys with slick hair and jazzed fingers trailed their hands along my skirt and grabbed my arms with their eyes full of happiness. All those buzzed, pierced dykes holding onto their girlfriends and their eyes asking if we could touch. The bouncer slips his hand the back of my arm when I pass, and I turn- “What?” “Nothing,” he says, and grabs a fist of my tulle for a few seconds before letting go. He looks at me hard, and when I don’t give in, then the ground. I laugh and hurry down the steps.

Summer To-Do (Too Due?)
- La Comedie Humaine
- Sausages from scratch (chicken & lavender)
- Embellishing furniture
- Fitness training
- Banjo?

I’ve been having this fantasy of when I see you in the train station and we’re arrested because I hold your body to me so fast and so hard and we cover each other with our hands that travel up and all over and mouths are everywhere and obscene in their gaping and pressing teeth and tongue whereever skin is bare, in the small shifts as you raise your arms above your head and I can touch my lips to a stretch of stomach, a shy collarbone. Just thinking of the power in the momentum of our bodies and the widening eyes, the inevitable nervous tap on a shoulder or a small but definite touch of a back, the “ExCUSE me, Miss, Sir,”squeezes my chest. I feel tears rising, and I’m not too sad or too happy but just too much. Choke it up, and go downstairs.