Waiting in the Chicago airport at David’s arrival gate complete with a flashing neon sign, an early birthday present, and peach flavored lip balm all over my lips.
23 years old. Queer. New York. BA in Gender Studies. Germanophile, writer, reader (see my books here), feminist, runner, writer, lover, nerd. More about me :) In recovery from an eating disorder; living with PTSD. Trigger warnings always apply, please take gentle care. What's up, babycakes?
today: up earlyearly after not a lot of sleep, ouch. drive boyfriend to airport. kiss goodbye (about 6 times…). I’m seeing him in just two weeks for Easter/my baptism! out to breakfast with Mom — spend time hanging out, eat huevos rancheros and orange juice. home. maybe a short nap now? shower. laundry. clean room. schedule shifts. alone time. make lentil soup? talk with David. early dinner. go see Richard IV Part II (my brother is in it — we saw Part I last night). home. bed.
today: last day with my baby for two weeks. errands. lunch. cleaning and chilling. talking and talking. dinner & brother’s play. home late. talk talk talk. sleep.
off on an overnight retreat with my boyfriend. no phones, no internet, just us, the open road, and a bed and breakfast. bye!
elytra: the word pinpricking our lips
a walk, a hundred walks
finding a seat amidst the bees
two a.m. in the fields: sparking electric fence
white mare gently tossing her head
and you, quiet.
avoiding enormous snails
(and you cared to hear about them)
our row-boat: your sleeves rolled up
it’s three a.m. now
toes tucked under leg
and the words are dripping off the wall
our lips slurring from tiredness
and still, still, don’t let it end.
other mornings we just Look
not even sure what truth we are sharing
wondering, are we vessels for something greater?
the rain on the boat when everyone else went inside.
the concert, blurred rainbows above
the smell of rosemary on my hands
the arrhythmic bird
simulacrum (an unsatisfactory substitute: anyone but you)
assiduous (working diligently at a task: you and your Kafka)
supine (how we lay beside the church)
the small laugh, the slip of the tongue,
the taken-back words (‘throw him out the window’)
and our attempts
no, we’re not, we’re aliens
guessing the time (your favorite game)
11 pm grass, and we find constellations
you know the names of trees
you know the names of birds
and I tell you stories, names
you give me dinners and midnight cereal
laundry into small hours
holding me up, lay me down in the rain
we agree, this just can’t work anymore
I have to walk back from the concert
now: miles and hours
no more shared laundry rooms
but I will buy you a horse, alien boy