Synonyms

Incandescent.

Exceptional.

Gorgeous, radiant, glowing.

Effervescent.  Ebullient.

Delicate.

Statuesque.

Stupefying.

Startling impressive.

Comforting.  Craving.

Irreplaceable.

These are what come to mind in the dictionary definition that I find in you.

Finally Friday

We adored our Fridays...

They were our days, as much as they could be...that last adrenaline before the weekend.  We left Fridays flushed and slightly sweating...like after a day at the beach in high summer.

Summer embodies us...the soaking of the sun, the humidity of our days...the sometimes storms that inevitably happen.  We are not a winter, although we have been through some.  We are not spring as that is something re-emerging...we never went away.  We are not fall.

We are tan lines...we are salt on skin.  We are Corona's with lime.  We sip in the refreshing aspects of each other, drunk on proximity, laughing at our lack of pretense.

We are soothing, the quiet repetitive lap of waves on a shore...your beauty is captured in bright colored sea-shells glimpsed briefly through translucent waters...it is in the color of skies over a sea.  Each one un repeatable...but still beautiful each time. I've used that metaphor before and I do it again as it is specific and it is perfect.

We loosen clothes, clutch at each other and wade into warm waters.

We look forward to Friday's like we used to look forward to a trip to the ocean.

Each Friday now I remember the way we were there in a season and if I had to describe it I would just say that it felt like Summer.

Thursday, part 2

I usually, without an excuse, listen to music while typing away...a variation of songs that alter my mood, help me define my muse, help me embrace a moment.  I'm like the guy in the Beats Commercial walking cooly down the sidewalk...but rather than walking cooly I'm kinda hunched over behind a desk.

My current Pandora addiction is Instrumental Chill...a combination of lounge like tunes with no words...like a bit of Watercolors from Satellite Radio but not just limited to jazz.

It reminds me of a high-end bar, a place that is cooly lit and interesting colors play against the backdrop of sounds and cocktails.

It is a place where I would love to invite you...a place that I would love to see you inhaling a long cigarette, relaxing...just spending minutes that fly into hours and we talk about a billion tiny things, just enjoying the proximity...the background noise.  Mostly the proximity.


Instrumental Chill...try it sometime.

Thirsty Thursday....Part 1

The sweet dark rich colors...the way they change in a light, they way they change in a circumstance...the way they widen and dim.

They way I fall in.

Come sip with me...come sit beside me.  Come like ice immolate the drink, softening it the way I feel you do this world...you rub soft edges into a day of spikes.  You make it curve, you make the day infinitely sweeter.

Come abide with me...a porch at sunset, frogs peeping their constants, insects alighting, a dark smear of orange in the west and you beside me with music playing in another room.  No promises but just a moment when two can connect and disconnect...feel me beside you.  No talk, just the slight stir of air.  We are comfortable, we are softened.

Come lean into me...a noisy place, a New York bar...a crush of a crowd.  I can smell you when you talk into my ear, the lotion, the same, the constant...it is on your hands and on your skin.  And I deliberately talk low so you lean in, your bourbon slowly melting in your glass that you pull to your chest to not spill as you angle towards me.

Come remind me...the hesitancy when we drink in the day...an afternoon...we crave the night because we never spend it together so this is a filler...we dare.  We take our sips, we flush sometimes with color.

A bottle of brown, wrapped in scarlet silk.

We remind each other of a time and of a drink...we remember a time of when the warmth infusing us was well beyond the bourbon.  We toast each other of stolen moments but secretly wish for more.

I secretly crave the more.

I secretly toast the evening of coal blackness...across fires and flames, across the slight red blink of towers...dots on a horizon.  Reminders of things that light up.

I remember your eyes...the same exact color of a drink poured in an evening and given a chance to slightly alter, to sometimes become darker, and sometimes lighten...but always...always lightening up.

It is funny the thirst that is felt is not always in the tongue or in the throat...it is funny how quickly the thirst can move to a place in the chest that is not brown at all but rather heartbeat red.

Moods

It is rather simple...the liquid syrup of your voice, the slight husk of an accent from the low country, the brief laugh and the hum and echo of when you say "hmmmm..."

Such transport...retrieving in my ears and reminding me behind my eyes that whisks me fleetingly to a place where I can picture you...

Therapy, the natural release of the sound of you inside of me that relaxes and regales...reminds, lovely tiny lit match reminders of a million words said before...that you uncannily make sound new.

Brightening everything...restorative balance, calming and removing the layers...the beautiful sweet sound of you bolstering my day, hastening my pulse, re-awakening parts of me somewhat dusty, corridors in places left behind in disarray, rejuvenation.

The high sweet arc of my mood when you are simply talking to me, sweet outreach, a brief connected few minutes that I scramble to revisit but clumsily realize you are now gone, the phone is off and I am left with the song of you distant in my head.

In the Middle

And we find ourselves in the middle...

The middle of the week, the middle of the day, the middle of something that feels like time and as we look back it feels the same as the stare ahead...

I wish I was in the middle of nowhere with you.  Anywhere.

I wish I was in the middle of the ocean with you, surrounded by sun and reflections, a million shiny dimes.

I wish I was in the middle of the desert with you, surrounded by shape-shifting sands and a yellow moon.

I wish I was in the middle of the valley with you, surrounded by high peaks that blotted out the horizons and left us sun-drenched for just a portion of the day before falling into shadows.

I wish I was in the middle of a dance-floor with you...the middle of a swimming pool.

I wish I was in the middle of a porch swing, the first evening fireflies winking as a day slowly sank and the ice in our bourbon clanked with each movement.

I wish I was in the middle of you.

Small Purple Flowers

If I could

go back in time...

and knowing that I would one day meet you...

I would find the road that
went directly to you
your house
your place

and I would sprinkle packets of small purple flowers
and place them along the roadside
and return to nowadays

and that way I could gather in handfuls
these small tiny colors
and every morning
when you awoke
you would have a jar of them to start your day.

But instead
I'm at a distance that is beyond
and free of many colors
except the ones that I still pluck
each day
in the hopes
that I can conjure up just a tiny instance
of something
that could even come partially close
to the beauty that I see in you.

Tuesday, Newly constructed

Imagine if a day began with you?

I'd construct it beautifully...a gentle, gradual awakening, perhaps a quiet departure from the mounds of covers and pillows (a debatable act for sure as the desire to pull you towards me would be overwhelming...)

...to start coffee, to start the sounds of morning with the hiss of the coffee pot, the sound of a spoon in a cup.  A return to a darkened room to set the mug quietly beside you...a bit of a kiss and then back to the kitchen to create.

Your arrival with hair askew.

The just-beneath-the-covers warmth of you.  The sense of your skin beneath bed clothes.

A sun just waking, just beginning to lighten...the day constructing itself while I think of ways to return you to a bed that we have deconstructed.

Monday, rain

The start of the week...in a low-cloud storm of not quite cold enough to snow weather...

Mondays are reminders, like a bruise, of something that happened but we cannot quite remember.  They linger like a bit of a hangover, a tightening across my mind.  A fist.

They make me feel like I want to be anywhere else...they make me feel damp, clammy and rearranged.

They distract me, ignore me...minutes pile up like insects that won't go away...there, unmoving.

In the puddles and streetlights I see the grays and colors that cannot penetrate, the brake lights and taillights of slow moving and bored people...it stirs up fine dust of memories, sugar at the bottom of the tea glass...the long length of you coiled alongside of me, covers binding us and the warm and highly erotic touch of your skin upon mine.


It is raining again and it washes these things away.

Scenes from a bedroom

When the angle of the sun is almost at its highest, and in the winter it's at a much lower level, the light enters the bedroom like a shaft of gold, dust motes floating and the carpet warming where the day falls inside.

It is almost a glare, almost blindingly bright...it's champagne colored and travels as a day moves outside, stirring past a variety of broken clouds that disrupt the lens and sometimes darken the room into grays and taupes.

It is a sweet reminder, this slight dawning and dimming, the aperture widening and drawing a full-throated spectacle of the color of air and an afternoon and a winter sun alighting upon my room.  It is exquisite in the way you often entered, resplendent and incandescent, arriving like a full lost sun as you walked the small distance towards me...warming, beckoning, consuming my view as I drank in the air of you...and departing leaving behind grays and tones that remind me that the room is basically and essentially alone.

I wait by the window for your return.

Immolation

Fever...feed me.  Feed me the heat and the sweat and the burning of the insides...turn the arteries into ashes and let the blood boil as it courses through my veins.  Haunt and stalk the curves and crevices of my mind as a freshly lit match touches drought-dry memories...go up in flames and blacken into tiny bits of parts that aren't healed.

Singular sweet thoughts of you...drip candle-wax hot...burning sweet burns into me.

Choking cold in an evening, warm me from within,  with lips like branding irons place your heat across me, pull the sickness from my skin and steam it away with your kiss.

Immerse me in humid bath waters, with scents of lavenders and healing, align with me, conjoin and wrap your arms around my burning soul...smother me.

I simply burn for you...

A conflagration that wildfires like those in the West that are started by lightning...the briefest of intersections with a simple spark and my dried out parts that needed to burn...cleansing, abrading...scraping the old me...uncovering the new.

Every day I burn for you...

Hoping to immolate and continue to be until you mold me into something worth keeping.

No distance, no Time

It doesn't matter really...

It doesn't really matter at all.

The concept of time as a measure of interaction is no longer worth keeping...it has been overcome by the sheer fact that all that prior interlude collapses the moment I speak with you again...reminding that we are not meant to measure us by a clock, by anything that others need to feel and cling to...rather like the way the moon pulls waves at varying tides I hear you and I react...always, and seemingly endlessly the same...each and every time we talk.

The concept of distance is a bit of a different matter though...it cannot allow the sweet ingestion of you coming into view...the light fragrance at your wrist and hand...the feel of your hair cascading over us and the clutch...

Distance is a bitch.

But what I lay in brick by brick thoughts that ultimately bring me to your feet once again are the silent movies of us that I rewind and that I play again and again...over and over, the playlist of our conversations is my muse, the way darkened rooms played light music and overtures, the distance dwindling until it was non-existent.

Time and distance...they don't really matter...so long as you are at the end of both of them.

A Wish

At night, from afar, in the cold and pale evening where the stars were keenly sharp and the air was crisp as if a single sheet of ice you could see the flames of the refinery from miles away.  He often found himself parked as the afternoon slowly slid its curtain aside into the evening, waiting for the flames to be lit and signal the official start to the nighttime.

The car was slightly tilted on the edge of the dirt road, surrounded by the scrub brush that was golden in the afternoon but became clumps of gray and then black as the sun compressed against the horizon.  The bottle of bourbon was half full, the front seat still covered with remnants of packaging that were slowly littered when he opened it a few hours ago.

He was in a very remote place, the only radio station that worked was AM and he had found a country station out of Waco that barely muddled through the speakers...his iPhone had no reception from where he sat.  So he took another sip.

There had been other birthdays in the past...once he had brought her a store-bought cake with one of her favorite Disney characters...it was a child's cake, pretty and small and they had laughed as they tried to fit her age number of candles on it...the next year, same cake but he got the larger single number candles and it was a sweet moment, the kiss after the cake, the scent of frosting, the sugar, the sweet breath of her.

Buying gifts for her were always interesting...she gravitated towards certain colors and then rarely deviated...she didn't wear a lot of jewelry...she liked his scribbled notes in his poor handwriting and of course any bourbon that they could share.

The hardest part were the wishes...she never shared what she wanted or asked for when she blew out the candles, the flames going sideways and then disappearing in their peculiar gray smoke.  He had asked once, and she had merely shaken her head.  He never asked again.

And as the years piled on the sun kept its similar arc across the skies and for the most part the stars remained the same...a few falling now and then...to be wished upon...but that wish never shared but kept secret by her.  And they didn't get a chance to spend those days together as much...no more cakes or Disney or lit candles.  And their communications became almost-birthday like...occurring once a year...at least that's what it felt like.  Certainly random...but the gaps became gaps and just lengthened the way an afternoon in summer gets longer than one in winter.  Only just as cold as a winter one.

In the cool evening a refinery plume exulted, leaping up in the sky, orange and yellow against the pitch black, dancing and flaring and drawing one's eye from across the entire horizon in a way eerily similar to the way she caught his in any situation where they shared proximity.  She burned white hot if she was in the same room, a can't-miss sight that even if he wasn't looking directly at her he would still feel her upon him.

Tonight she wasn't even in the same geography as him.

But as he watched the fire dancing he recalled the same exact wish that he had wished every time she had blown out the candles...the exact same sentiment that he murmured as she leaned in to extinguish the flames.

It went along the lines of every time that she saw something remarkable, saw something pretty, felt something comforting, luxuriated in a certain hidden way, relaxed in a seemingly unimaginable fashion and let her eyes be pleased as they gazed upon something...he wished that she could feel that every day.  It was merely just asking or hoping that she experienced everything he went through as she crossed his peripherals and let her come into focus.  He raised the bottle and wished it to her again.