I had this idea of sitting with you in a house we would never leave, where we would kiss for days on end and the moon would never fall, and our mothers would never come to visit. We would squander every penny on increasingly useless items: pearls and books and other pennies, and anything you could wear around your neck. How in the hell are you supposed to say no to that? You would form all sorts of bad habits; you would laze around the house in a sweatshirt and some socks, publishing brilliantly cryptomnesiac research from the comfort of your study, and I’d write a million little poems and put them in frames. I’d barricade every door, or never build them at all. I would still be full to bursting with the pleasantly consumptive desire that pervaded me at sixteen; I would beg for a sort of domestic vampirism to replace sex, and I’d say: This is what love is, baby, take it or leave it. We would never buy groceries. You would crawl into our bed each night brimming with raw anticipatory genius, and I would kiss your hands to settle them, again and again, because I could make a million empty promises but I could kiss you for days on end. And our mothers would never visit, and I would be mother enough for both of us. And our home would never want for anything and sweetheart—I would call it good.
- "homebodies"
