Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Heaven and Earth

A man will move heaven and earth, to see a woman he needs. 

A man will not touch anything that he does not want to taste.

I must review the timeline, and the time it takes. From first sight until today =  six weeks.  Time needed for maturation on the vine?  Three minutes of banter plus ten days. Time we’ve seen together – our six hours, as the light changed into evening. 

How do we go from “Beautiful…” to not here next to me? 

There’s a wide margin between wonder and wondering.

It’s all so temporal; I just hoped, with him, this he, this him, that it would not be so temporary.

I pledge allegiance, left hand to right breast, right hand over left.

I dislike this part of the assembly, when you know, exactly, the location
of your heart in your chest.

I reassemble my thoughts, and try to find the shift, try to understand the spring unsprung, the unhinging.  Since we’ve just left the month of August, how do I explain that the onset of winter frightens me?

I went over our messages, to review my switchbacks of memory, to secure the insecurity.  Unlike the first blush of the first touch, I know this is not a good color on me.

For all of the banter and bravado, for all of the abreast and bosom, I’m lonely. I know, my alone state.  (What choices have been made?)  It’s the thought of not being alone, of that one moment when the mood and the moon shifted, the tides and the sides, the change in degree. For moments upon other moments, I felt a connection to someone and something, that intangible tangent of possibility.  For a moment, I felt lucky.

And now you pull away?  (Either because you felt it too, or you think I’m crazy.) So yes, let’s give it to synapses, for there is nothing synthetic about this. 

Give me a moment to have my eyes water with tears, to touch my tongue to my lips and retaste.  This started out so playful, so why am I in the red velvet chair, devastated? The diagnosis has been done, the fainting couch is in place.

Rachel P. Maines has observed that such cases were quite profitable for physicians, since the patients were at no risk of death, but needed constant treatment.

There’s so much to share in this world…so much warmth and beauty.  Do you not want...everything?  Perhaps I misread the 100 missives…perhaps I got fucked by the pheromones…perhaps it’s hysteria…perhaps it’s what only I crave.

To only see me once?  Never occurred to me.  I’m blindsided by my attraction.  Show up at the door and take my hand again, and brush the hair back from my face.  Make me laugh. One, two, three.

You have to stop wanting.  (But I finally want again.) You have to let him be.

“I could listen to you all day,” he says.

I wish for a week ago, a Monday, at 11:50pm...when I felt wanted and pursued…a wanton pursuit.  It’s the quiet…the silence…the thought that this could be so easy – mind to mind, hand to hand, side to side (on my side), your you, my me. 

We pledge allegiance, hand to heart…again.

I want to go to the moment, the moment before the moment, when we first met.

You were twelve minutes early.

“I’m here.” You said.

Friday, September 2, 2011

I beg you to take me off the market

A first date, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I become insane.

I review and remember every first moment, every first, the linger of the first kiss, the first hand-in-hand (and in and).  Your happy surprise and gaze.  The light in your eyes when you first saw me...and the first time you touched my face.

You say "I want to take you all in."  All in, me.

That sense of familiar.  The primal sense of wanting your hand on my hip, your self behind myself, your senses next to me.

Do you realize that I have been dating (and non-dating) for twenty years, and no one (not a one) has ever sat behind me and leaned down to kiss my leg?

I bruise easily -- due both to my coloring and idiopathic condition (which I always think -- any idiot can bruise easily...we'll discuss the actuality another day) -- but you did not leave a physical mark. My skin, unblemished.  My memory, intact.

You, I have been thinking about, all day.  The first date that goes so well that you think "I'll marry him" in tandem with "I will never see him again."

That fear, of rejection.  That fear, of possibility.  That fear, that he will disappear.  That fear, that I will never see.

We need each other, to see.  An emotional see-saw.  An emotion. You were here for a moment.  Me.

I survey the debris.

Not wanting to wash the glasses, not wanting to put things back-to-normal, wanting to remember your "here" and here.  Not taking a shower so you will linger.  Not wanting to erase.

Your mouth, and a thousand months before. I lean into you and taste your mouth. Before you leave.