PoeticaL
cluttering the net since 2001

I love you in the every day

Saturday, Apr. 15, 2006
Itís the smell of his neck, the hard lines of his back, the way his hair feels under my fingertips as he welcomes my hands grazing his skull, the way he always unbuttons his jeans to be comfortable, the way they are always sliding down his backside as he stumbles off to bed most nights, tired from working so very hard. Itís the hard work in his hands and the soft heart in his chest. Itís the way he goes to work every day, even when itís been 50+ hours of moving other peopleís lives all around town already that week. Itís the way he gently scolds me for stressing, taking personal days off, and generally being all the things I hate myself for being. Itís the way he smiles when thereís dinner. Itís the silence in how he moves closer to me when I move towards him. Itís the response to my advance and the chase when I run. Itís the impact of the who of who he is coming to the surface of the rawness of my past when I am moving through the dullness of normalcy and stop to bring his worn shirt to my face to remind myself that he is there where the blank space used to be. He is mine, he is good and he is not to be feared. It is in those inhales of the now that I find myself feeling truly the most of who I know me to be. Itís not easy or hard, it just is all that it is all by itself without worrying about holding too tight or too lose. There are faults in our lines and we do not draw them purely by him or alone by I, but sometimes the ďweĒ of who ďweĒ are finds mistakes we stumble through, but our straight lines run quickly to resolution and forgivenessís. Yes, itís the way he answerís his phone as if heís a hundred miles away, the way he can drink coffee black, the way he doesnít care what otherís think and thinks less of otherís than he does of me. Itís the way he mocks my ďtalking to the doggieĒ voice and how much I love the dog and then talks his own doggie voice to the dog. Itís the love of brotherhood and the strong sense of duty to his family. Itís the way he sings out of tune as though itís the best song in the world. Itís the way he doesnít let me forget the things I have corrected in him when I do them incorrectly in myself. Itís the way he smiles when I join him and slouches disappointed when I donít. Itís the way he sleeps with abandon just like children do, laid across the bed without covering up. Itís the way he tries on any pants I buy him and then walks away from me with an exaggerated hip sway when he turns to show me his ass. Itís the way he drinks from the carton, and his empty Gatorade bottles left behind. Itís the way he cleans with nothing but bleach and elbow grease. The way he moves when I touch him, the way he touches my face. Itís the complexity of the simple things, the things that I surely overlooked before I really knew what love was, before him that is to put it simply.
12:07 p.m. ::
prev :: next