M.,
your mother called. apparently you just left her place. she said she was afraid that you were gonna come here and tell me something about how i smother you and that i'm a horror to be around. she begged me to go out so that you wouldn't be able to babble to me. she thought maybe you needed a day to rest and recuperate.
i'm guessing you were near to having one of your anxiety attacks while trying to explain yourself to her. don't worry. i know how she gets to you sometimes, but she's a good woman and means well and she just wants the best for you. please don't be mad at her for getting me out of the house.
i didn't want to go but i didn't want to feel her wrath either. i managed to please both of us. i left, as i said i would, but i went by your place. you probably already know that, though.
have you cracked it yet? or will you wait for me?
can i caress your hair and stroke your breasts as you hover over me, splitting the shell above my belly? can i watch as you separate skin from fruit?
can we eat it together, sharing the food and each other? can i suck the pink from your flesh, the stains from your lips, the breath from your mouth? can i taste your fingers and hands and lips and tongue? can i lick the juice from your navel and the seed from between your legs?
can we exhaust each other, collapse on--and eat up and fold into--each other? can we lay juxtaposed and let our bodies whisper 'i love you' with their nocturnal migrations?
can we find comfort in the knowledge that we are also what we've lost?
if not, can we we die trying?
call me. i miss you.
d.
P.S. you breath in here and you've breathed of me. [mp3] was that what you were trying to say to your mother? if so, i know what you mean. i'm sorry. it's that or the complete opposite. i've seen both. you wouldn't like the other. it's common and ugly and so unnatural for me. trust me.
