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[Nov. 22nd, 2009|12:39 am] |
I point a finger at the bumps on her face, and laugh, while distinguishing the difference between the face I see and the face I place my lips and let kiss. she smells of products and lethargy, she tastes of watermelons ripe on sunny picnic days. there are other things, in places I hide, which I also point at and laugh. sometimes while I distract with one hand the other works its way up past the small of her back to the place where straps met. sometimes both hands travel down her belly only to unbutton and unzip the things we work so hard to hide. objects we place beneath wonder and mystery. yet there are only so many words I can say, places I let please. in bed time we’ll forget that while building in the night we rethink during the day. that while I wave goodbye with this hand, I cross my fingers and hope with the other.
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