I miss you. The way our faces stack as we lie on our sides, not yet ready to leave the warmth of each other’s bodies; the scent of the oils gathered in the crease of your nose, your neck. I would like to nestle there.
I miss the salty scent between our legs–a little bit of you and I left over from the eve before, wafting up our limbs between the sheet that covers you, and the comforter I’ve stolen in the night, because you will turn in your sleep, and I need something to embrace me. I reach down to caress you.
I miss you making me the morning coffee you and I both know I should not have; its itchy angst and welling of emotions, the urgency of everything magnified. But you love me, and I love the feeling of a warm coffee mug, the bittersweet scent of cream with a little espresso and a lot of vanilla in the summer; hazelnut in winter. I tease sometimes that I love it more than you. “The coffee is way hotter,” you say, pouring it in front of me, a small wish granted every day, your lips pressed for a moment on my forehead.
I stir the breakfast potatoes. Soon, the eggs. Soon, I will switch to decaf, I say. Then you will have to be my morning cream and coffee. I am in your kitchen; the peach morning light beginning to peek so nosily between the slats of the blinds and into our affairs.
I miss your eyes peering into mine as we practice making children in the woods, in a tent, against a tree; a little (not too much) more tender than your aggressive approach as we fuck; my body bent over a bucking dining room chair, the arm of the couch, a kitchen counter as the meal over-cooks, the desk scented with oils from my perfumed wrists pinned and rubbing on its surface with your rocking, the hood of the car; sometimes the bed. We start slow and sweet, with intention; fingers entwined like twigs in a country basket; our bodies smoking as a campfire before bursting into flame; carnivorous for a bite of lip, or your teeth to my nipple. I want you to make it bleed, but we slow again, tender expansion. I slide my leg up, straight, perched on your shoulder so you can watch yourself. It is important to view one’s work when making art. And what else are children but constantly evolving works? We lie still just a few moments as I watch your chest rise and fall in recovery before we crawl away from one another for a weekend morning shower.
And I miss taking turns washing each other’s skin, the way you lift my foot to cleanse its sole, the way your eyes close and your neck tilts as I gently wash behind your ears to finish with a light brush of your ear lobe; the way you cringe every time you step into the hot water I’ve turned up because yours was too cold, and I cannot shave with goosebumps.
The mornings must have been our time. Often now, I greet them like a friend left behind. It is then that these memories return, but these are not memories at all; for in this life I have not yet known you. Still, I long for your return.
the RAMBLE 