a body

doing its body things

[camusshoes]

Come over. You'll mull over all my confessions and conceive a plan. You'll remember how Rocky Horror subdues my fear of intimacy. How when wine mixes with my blood, my lips start seeking skin. How a masquerade mask evokes from me short-sighted impulses and hands me over to unhinged irresponsibility. You'll think about whispering “In a mask I can be true to myself, and in a mask you can be someone else.” But you'll find it too corny and creepy to speak, and the way the words will crouch on your tongue--ready to pounce in an instant--will keep you locking your mouth shut. Besides, masked me only has my body in common, and that would not satisfy you. I'll wake up, rub my eyes, and smile when you're the first thing I see. You'll look scared a moment as your brain remembers that your desires aren't mine, and the fantasy will submerge deeper into you.

[camusshoes]

Come over. When you'll be busy shaming yourself for thinking about the skin beneath my clothes, I'll be having a nightmare. You won't wake me with the touches you desire; I can always trust that about you. You'll be like my campfire, all that burning safely contained in the borders of your body. The warmth will ease my dreams, as I know that wherever I float in these unknown mysteries, I can always wake up atop you. (A fire yet a raft.) I know you'll mind, but you'll tell me it's okay. I'll trust you with me, but I'll worry that I can't trust you with yourself.

[camusshoes]

Come over. By the time the movie's over and all the champagne bubbles have settled in our stomachs, I'll be asleep with my head cushioned on your chest. You'll think I'm bony when my elbows start to leave almost-dents in your skin, but you won't mention it. You won't move my body even when its weight burdens you, because you wouldn't risk bringing me discomfort. You'll like the sharp of the bones because they're my bones, and I'll keep wondering if that's cruel. I've always asked you to let me know if you need anything, but you've always said you're okay. You'll look at my closed eyelashes and think about kissing me, but you won't.

[camusshoes]

Come over. I'm sick and I wanna watch a chick flick. I'll pour pink champagne and I'll give you that classy smile--with the teeth gleaming just over the rim of the glass--right before I start coughing uncontrollably and spill a little on my army green pajama pants. We'll cuddle on the couch and I'll drape my legs over your lap before I apologize for feeling too sick to shave. You'll say "That's okay, men don't need to shave their legs anyway" and I'll look at you like you just spoiled everything. It'll make you jumpy and flail out a bunch of words to try to fix it, and that stupid charming panic is what'll make the moment ours again.