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v u l v a l i c i o u s Oh, I really wanted that thing. I just want to sing I love you baby. I'm not pretending, not making things up. I write down the same thing every night as though that might help validate me. Her is never the same her, she is not the she that I spoke of yesterday or the day before. Unless, of course, she is, and her presence is always there--right there--in the upper right corner of my mind. We walk through fallen red maple leaves and appreciate their beauty. I hold my tongue, but want to tell her that she's beautiful. Does she hear that? Does she want to? I take a long step out of the leaves, kicking a few up with my back foot. In their rain dampness, a few cling to my boot, and I carry them with me. As much as I enjoy the feeling of crushing, I hate its prolonged inevitability. I hate the control it has over thoughts, words, poetry. In my mind, I begin thinking of her eyes. Rhyming nature seeks a pairing, and comes up only with thighs; hips, stomach, breasts--I am building her up up until she is naked before me, and I cannot help but kiss her. My imagination does not want to be reigned in. It wants her, and stays in hot pursuit in spite of my protests. I cannot push her back, I cannot push her out. The space in my upper right corner, a space unoccuppied for some time, is hers, whether she wants it or not. And I think I know, in the upper left corner of my mind, that this is a spot she does not want. And that is why I want her out of my mind. Thinking, Feeling, Cunting; the latter being my verb of choice. |