Stop Go Light
“Real love is the love that sometimes arises after sensual pleasure: if it does, it is immortal; the other kind inevitably goes stale, for it lies in mere fantasy.”
– Giacamo Casanova
At the thought of her I am wet. Hard. Punched drunk by my own venom, surging.
At the thought of her I am pulsing. My bloody heart and the valley between my legs writhes alive as though spring has come and fall has receded into its darkened winter.
At the thought of her I am barrel-chested, expansive with possibility and my future is like the universe, still exploding from that single point; ballooning outward.
not supposed to be together.
probability and uncertainty and the undying promise that tomorrow may never come. Tomorrow, the phone may not ring. Tomorrow, the universe may contract and never expand again.
Tonight, however, and the moon is full. There is still more time until winter’s coat chills this land.
Flying through the night, wedged between two broken racing stripes, we are gliding down the highway. She has my shirt unbuttoned, untucked and my belt buckle is becoming untangled as we speak.
She is over the console and reaching into my pants as though she has a fever. She is biting at my neck.
Her teeth are like her breath. Like her juices when I am between her legs: like citrus cacti. Sharp and big.
She numbs my tongue. She wets my black and blue neck.
When I leave her, at her car in the morning; at her house in the dead of night:
I can’t think of big things. All I can feel are small things, like:
I can’t breathe a complete breath.
I feel like the Antarctic seas. Clean and clear. Washed over.
When I leave her,
It is as though simply standing before the question is good enough. As though she is the question and our time, the wind.
All I can feel are the small things. Walking away from her and I know only simple truisms:
I miss her.
I want her.
I need her.
On my boomerang return back to her at the beginning of the week and all I know are the big things like:
I miss her.
I want her.
I need her.
Last week it was over. This week it is hanging over my head.
She is asleep and I am watching her tiny torso heaving. She is making sounds of breath and lips and mouth. She is exhausted and lopes her leg over mine. I lose myself in the air after midnight, the touch of her naked skin on mine and, for many minutes, I listen to the cars passing her house. Her bed.
This is the first time that I have laid with her, in her house. In her bed. In the night.
A couple of times and I even fall asleep in this strange white room.
She says she loves me. She says she loves another. There is a picture of him across the room and I wonder how he loves her. If he really loves her at all. If my love is that love, the kind of love, that she loves.
The card I gave her two weeks ago is on her desk. It says: Leap and the net will appear.
Then I come-to and remember that her leg is loped over mine. My leg is now tingling because all the blood is in my heart, but because I do not know if I will ever be this close again, I only blink, look over her moonlit body and breathe deeply as though I am sleeping and this is a dream that I will always remember.
I don’t see intoxication enough. Not in those around me.
I don’t see paralysis enough. Not in those I share words with.
I don’t see complete disasters, out and in the open. Not truly. Not completely.
I often wonder if we have surrounded ourselves with the comfortable ones. The fearful ones. The delicate ones.
This is life afterall. Delicate and pungent. Short and squat, like a lateral vessel sloshing its liquid time back and forth.
To become a complete person one must endure disasters. Messes. Paralysis. Intoxication. And they must shiver awake a little more, each time they are called upon by these disasters. Messes. Moments of pure terror.
She is sitting before me. A jean skirt, tiny and riding up on her thighs.
The tattoo on her hip is peeking out.
She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Puts her foot up and on my thigh.
I can see the dark triangle between her legs. But it is her head and her heart that are magnets for my eyes.
Cars in the night wash light around her head like a halo. She smiles at me and I am stricken. We are sitting with others and so I don’t say:
Somewhere between all this sex and love is power.
And in every small thing I do and say with her throughout the night, I will make certain that she feels this power, at least once. Thing is: the power may not be anywhere outside of her and maybe she has known it her whole life.
A couple of weeks ago, when I thought her heart was smiling only at me:
She was lying next to me and I kissed her spine as morning peered in through the windows. I told her that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She will tell me, hours later, that she thought I was talking in my sleep.
We haven’t slept much together in all the beds we inhabit. Typically, we go from ravaging to comatose. However, I have heard her childish breathing turn to an eloquent snore. And I know that we have slept, invisible hours upon others because I have heard our alarms shrilling because responsibility is always standing before us. Calling our names as that tail end of our time together.
Always, always, we rise early early early in the morning. She is always off to something, or someone and breakfast is just not something we do.
Right now I am thinking of all the ways that I want to devour her.
Right now I am thinking of how I will not take our next moment for granted. How I don’t know how to, because she is quick. Here. Then, gone.
Right now I know that this is all I have: these thoughts of her…
The last time I tasted her, weeks and lifetimes ago now:
She was sitting on my face while I stroked my self in front of her. I was lapping at her citrus juices. I nibbled, sucked and tasted all that I could. In that sober morning moment, I took every sensation with me and stuffed it into my memory’s pocket for future use.
When I exploded all over my stomach, she slowly crawled off me and sighed.
I grinned, knowing that this is how we begin our days together.
It is said that if you don’t have any disasters to endure, you may need to create some. To be complete. To become whole.
I am nervous and naked, crawling from her bed because it’s too hot to sleep. Because I can’t sleep. Because I just want to watch her, even though I know that she needs this rest. This sleep.
She is exhausted, like my heart.
I put on my pants and shirt. I slip on my shoes. I am stricken. The sadness wells in my sternum and I am too nervous to tell her that I love her with all of my heart. Instead I kiss her on the shoulder. Musically she says, call me later please…
I lock her door, open my car door and drive into the night, alone and under the pale of all love’s stoplights.