Monday, May 14, 2012

if you call my name out loud

 Swayed and seduced, as pliable as seaweed
Such a simple act—saying a name. But like so many seemingly simple things, it is more profound than its everyday-ness belies. It is a sacred act. There’s a knowledge, an intimacy, a familiarity that is imparted by a name. A name means in some small way you know the person—you know an essential part of them. The essence of all love is knowledge. To know the ins and outs and ups and downs—the quirks, the truths, and the scars of the person--that's love. You can’t truly know someone and not love them. Saying a name strips away a tiny bit of armor. It undresses just a miniscule portion of their outward defenses. My name. When you say my name, it’s like a wave of warmth envelops my entire being, and everything turns rosy with little glowing lights everywhere. It’s like a cool salt sea breeze stirring the burning white sands of a sunset beach under the bright pin lights of the brilliant stars hanging in a dusky twilight sky. It’s like your arms wrap around my body and hold me tight to yourself. It’s like a thousand tender kisses being showered over my face.
Secret kisses and the scent of crepuscular woods
No one touches. No one moves. Our bodies are separate, except for a strange warm aura that shimmers between us, and creates the sweet tension in the air. We sit, actively not touching. And then, our feet meet, drawn together as though there are two magnets in them. That’s all. Just two feet. Touching. But the desire shooting through each foot is palpable and a holy hush surrounds the scene. Breaths bate. There is a sugary suspense that sweetens the air and softens the light. And then, two hands clasp. Tentatively. Hungrily. They fit together so smoothly, the hands. They are at home together. They intertwine, not daring to break themselves apart. They are molded together, melting into one. The snowy white blur that is my hand is tenderly caressed by your fingertips—cradled in your hand. You bring my hand to your lips. Shower it with kisses. Soft kisses.
Her head and heart are sending different signals.
I’m not quite sure at all what this is. I haven’t grown accustomed to this.  My body is taken hostage by a feeling not quite native to myself. The headiness of whispered French nonsense phrases, of flattery and murmured blandishments, of clever and subtly disguised innuendos turns my head and knocks my senses flat like a giant dose of perfume. What girl can resist witticisms, particularly when there are so many to be made at a suitor’s expense? Gentle, clever teasing. Jokes and gently bemused, rolling laughs. Giggles and hearty, full-bodied, rich warm laughter. Blushes. Tilted heads and raised eyebrows.
I dearly love a laugh.
Your warm wool coat on my cheek is a luxurious contrast to the icy December snow falling softly on our heads. The miniscule gelid hexagons frost our dark heads—bent together, talking low—with delicate lace. We are caught in a dance. You move in, and I counter by stepping away. Your hands and mine have found a warm sanctuary in my coat pockets. The mistletoe is tantalizingly, dangerously close. The titillating tension rises with the color in my cheeks. Your soft lips move so close to my ear, my hair rustles from the movement of your breath. You’re beautiful. You know that, right? You have the most beautiful skin. Who could leave a smile like that? Words. Words words words. Compliments are impossible to accept with grace.
A beautiful girl like yourself should be careful with guys’ hearts.
Guys who like me are terrifying. I’m petrified of spiders, heights and being kidnapped at Disney world. But boys who like you are scarier than all of those combined. Don’t get me wrong, I love boys. I love talking and flirting and laughing and teasing and joking and discussing life, the world and everything in it with boys. But herein lies the rub: boys who like you will inevitably hurt you. 
Human beings are wonderful creatures. They are majestic and ridiculous all at the same time. They are simultaneously noble and crass, rude and transcendent. They are wonder and mystery wrapped up in a cozy, cuddly package of humanity. How can you not fall head over heels in love with each precious paradox of a person?
Which is never an issue, until they love you back. And you’d rather sucker punch them in the breadbasket and run fast in the opposite direction. Because at the end of the day, someone’s gonna get sucker punched one way or another. And I would rather it not be me.
I’m just corporeal vanilla ice cream.

From 900 Ways to Kill a Canary

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