Here I am again. Lying on your bed, summer sheets tucked against my ankles. City Breezes running through the rifts in your shades, hot smoke from somewhere seven floors below heating my naked soul. Oh, lord. Here I am again. I am waking now, my eyes adjusting to the shadows in your room, each piece of reality focusing into the screens of my nearly blind eyes.
Oh, and I can see you, sitting across the room from me, in the shadows of your closet. Naked from our sex, feet crossed underneath you, the music of your guitar filling the empty spaces. Picking on the chords, the gentle rhythm sending ripples to my naked soul. Oh, lord, here I am again. You can see me now, although I cannot see you. Just glimpse. That's all I'm aloud. Just a glimpse. You put the guitar down just gentle, the strings protesting in echo. You walk naked across the room, your feet padding on the linoleum.
Your naked body, gentle and simple as the starting breezes of a summer day, sifts gently across to my position on the bed. "Did you like it?" I hear you say. I place my hands on your arm, warm and strong. "The music? I suppose." I hear you laugh, and I desperately yearn again to see your face, your smile, I yearn. "No. The sex." I smile a bit. I can just see you, a simple outline in my focus, sitting straight, waiting for an answer. "Ah, the irony. The things I cannot see seem less than the things I can feel. Ah the irony." I touch your feet, cold and rough, like stones shifting in the ocean, years and years of worn worth. I feel you touch my hair. "Golden." You say, and I feel your tongue on my neck. "My little lost albino." I did hate that once. "I'm not lost," I would say. But of coarse I am. I love it now. I love it.
Coffee beans simmering in a hot pot drift up the open window, and the ladies from below begin to dance and sing, gentle melodies from the islands they mourn. I feel you shift under me, your head on the bed, your shadow gentle. "Lie with me love," you say and I obey, feel my face against your cool chest, your smooth and worn chest. The traffic has started outside your window, the hum and exhaust of morning movements stir the silence. I see the single shadow of a moth on the window frame, close to my face. I can smell the dankness in your sheets, your imperfections crawling at me like winter into summer.
I still love you.
