It’s Wednesday night and I am across the table from you, gulping down chamomile tea. I take my time studying your voice and your words.
It’s Thursday night and I’m walking toward a closed intersection at a protest. I take my time studying your ass and the almost silly yellow marshall stash across your shoulder. A little closer and I’m studying your hands, your lips, the past-life maybe cancerous spot above your lip. Later in the evening you’ve somehow managed to find your way to my red couch. I’m trying to keep my mind on the time and the cats, but I have a lustful mind full of wandering thoughts. I can’t decide if I want to be wrestled down to the floor or lay my head the the crook of your arm.
It’s Friday night and I am on the floor, leaning over puzzle pieces with a friend. I take my time studying the space between us. You are sitting in a chair just next to our puzzling attempts. I’m dressed as a sailor and keenly aware of how short my skirt is. I want to look at you and the way you are looking at me, but I can barely manage to look at your boots.
