notes from a waking...
there’s a man in the apartment above typing into two in the morning. his non-electrical selectrical strokes falling strangely like the sound of intermittant rain. you realize when you hold your breath and it becomes silent that he’s made up the two of you just to put you in this bed. he’s a fever of bites. spiders and cats and her mouth on your chest. his fingers work slowly, yours moving backwards unhurriedly across her left nipple. he carves out some background music, the beautiful south singing let love speak up itself. it feels off and he erases it. still, it stays in your head and on your lips all morning. he writes an echo of her leg on your shoulders that comes out like a gasp. he takes a drag on his cigarette and feels the heat on his skin near his lips. the two of you sweat, perspiration gathering on his upper lip. the man upstairs can make rain with another richochet repetition, I need you so much closer.
no, no more music, he thinks. instead she lengthens, she gathers you between her legs and he pushes down hard on the keys. a pelting. he’s going to leave something behind, indentations on paper, the weekly bruises on your chest, the night and nights she leans in, you feel it like a crowd of faces sometimes but he never includes that. he erases baseball scores, the L train, the afternoon and the rush always comes different than you expected.
he wakes you into an early plot, but gives no sound to walk the uncrowned streets. he shows you your head, leaving her back in the bathroom, water running in the shower a floor below him. you wonder if he’s being selfish as the shower goes on, or as she gathers a blue towel to wrap around herself as she walks you to the door. he writes in the cat trying to get out the door to avoid a kiss goodbye, too sentimental. later though, as the lights dim the way they do during the forward train jostle you find that you can still taste her. he’s obviously a generous man. a hard worker. a callous on his right index fingertip. a smiler in the gale. shelter along the way. and then, because he can’t help himself, you hear music. hey, mr. dj, keep those records playing, cause I’m having, such a good time, dancing with my baby.
no, no more music, he thinks. instead she lengthens, she gathers you between her legs and he pushes down hard on the keys. a pelting. he’s going to leave something behind, indentations on paper, the weekly bruises on your chest, the night and nights she leans in, you feel it like a crowd of faces sometimes but he never includes that. he erases baseball scores, the L train, the afternoon and the rush always comes different than you expected.
he wakes you into an early plot, but gives no sound to walk the uncrowned streets. he shows you your head, leaving her back in the bathroom, water running in the shower a floor below him. you wonder if he’s being selfish as the shower goes on, or as she gathers a blue towel to wrap around herself as she walks you to the door. he writes in the cat trying to get out the door to avoid a kiss goodbye, too sentimental. later though, as the lights dim the way they do during the forward train jostle you find that you can still taste her. he’s obviously a generous man. a hard worker. a callous on his right index fingertip. a smiler in the gale. shelter along the way. and then, because he can’t help himself, you hear music. hey, mr. dj, keep those records playing, cause I’m having, such a good time, dancing with my baby.
posted by gradylove at 2:20 PM
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