Post by girlalicious on Feb 27, 2008 22:50:31 GMT -5
Seeing the sensual mentronomic rise and fall of the outline of a breast that bellows with the soft unconscious breath of a dark haired girl chrewing gum. The shadow from hairs on the nape of her neck. A thin silver necklace drapes around the rim of her collarbone, resting lightly into the cottony folds of her shirt, hiding its personal pendant from prying eyes, only to be shown to a lucky disrober. Cool, kickback rockstar smiles, a shifting of shoulders, a twitch of time, and pure new light spilling wildly into the oeanic blue aqua rim of her eye, bouncing and refracting down into the well of the pupil, burrowing bravely into the brain, hoping to display my smiling teeth for a dark hallway in her brain to let her know I am here.
I am ready and willing to write thousands of poems and novels about the simple slope of her calf, tapering down into a dainty drumming feminine foot. Nails on her toes, not red or crimson, but so soft a pink it looks like perfect new flesh, transparent and pearly, offset by the poor lighting in a zoology class room. over the drone of larval stages and reproductive method and dispersal, my mind wanders to questions of her personal life, as much a mystery to me as the layout of forgotten Aztec cities, but easier than getting information from an archeological dig.
I can talk to her. I can ask her name. I can ask her questions that could make her smile when she thinks of her family, her dreams, her favorite foods and colors. I wonder if she is lonely, more lonely in the fall or spring, at night or the morning, on Monday’s or Saturday’s, or never. It is hard for me to imagine a soul who doesn’t feel lonely, and I could, like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, fit into her loneliness with mine, snapping two crooked people together to make a better picture from discarded pieces. What color is the wall in her bedroom? Which part of her body does she wash first in the shower? Are there stuffed animals on her bed or is it flat, messy and wrinkled? What is the first picture she sees every morning when she wakes up as she peers out her window? A dying tree, a playground behind a daycare, a drab isolating brick wall? How do these possible pictures affect her mood today? ETC? ETC? Does she even have a window?
Do other people wonder wander through these thoughts, silently staring, searching? To me, this is Love. There can be couples that copulate for centuries, but these simple questions are more honest and true than any attempt to see the pattern on a girls underwear. To wonder about things which are none of my business, to wonder about these sexy, (forbidden yet deserved), unimportant, uninteresting, amazing, gross, personal tidbits of information. I want someone to stare at the back of my head and to become enamored with the outline of my body, the contours of my face. I want someone who I find beautiful to wonder about the color of my walls….
I am ready and willing to write thousands of poems and novels about the simple slope of her calf, tapering down into a dainty drumming feminine foot. Nails on her toes, not red or crimson, but so soft a pink it looks like perfect new flesh, transparent and pearly, offset by the poor lighting in a zoology class room. over the drone of larval stages and reproductive method and dispersal, my mind wanders to questions of her personal life, as much a mystery to me as the layout of forgotten Aztec cities, but easier than getting information from an archeological dig.
I can talk to her. I can ask her name. I can ask her questions that could make her smile when she thinks of her family, her dreams, her favorite foods and colors. I wonder if she is lonely, more lonely in the fall or spring, at night or the morning, on Monday’s or Saturday’s, or never. It is hard for me to imagine a soul who doesn’t feel lonely, and I could, like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, fit into her loneliness with mine, snapping two crooked people together to make a better picture from discarded pieces. What color is the wall in her bedroom? Which part of her body does she wash first in the shower? Are there stuffed animals on her bed or is it flat, messy and wrinkled? What is the first picture she sees every morning when she wakes up as she peers out her window? A dying tree, a playground behind a daycare, a drab isolating brick wall? How do these possible pictures affect her mood today? ETC? ETC? Does she even have a window?
Do other people wonder wander through these thoughts, silently staring, searching? To me, this is Love. There can be couples that copulate for centuries, but these simple questions are more honest and true than any attempt to see the pattern on a girls underwear. To wonder about things which are none of my business, to wonder about these sexy, (forbidden yet deserved), unimportant, uninteresting, amazing, gross, personal tidbits of information. I want someone to stare at the back of my head and to become enamored with the outline of my body, the contours of my face. I want someone who I find beautiful to wonder about the color of my walls….