v u l v a l i c i o u s theories of abundance 2007-02-05 // 8:23 p.m. A slice through my history, quick with a thin-tipped knife, and I am caught with a cut on my finger. The same way I dreamt the other night of lying, heads almost touching, bringing your hand to my mouth like I was asking a question. Do I or don't I? Interruptions make it impossible to get an even answer. But I think I've already played the game of kissing anywhere but the mouth. I've chewed my lip like a plastic straw until it felt worn-through and lived-in. I've bitten so hard through my skin that I tasted blood for two full days, the cut opening up whenever I'd try to eat or talk too hard. I've left myself off like a thought that came too late for the end of the sentence. It's too much to say, there's no time to say it; I'll erase this part as if it was never there. And I've been grabbed, but never like that, never like it was the easiest thing to be done, never pulled in til I was just so and then released with the same effortless ease. I sank back into the couch and traded the story of a song with you like it was nothing, like our knees weren't touching and like I wasn't thinking about 2 seconds and 2 inches from your face. The time it would take to mistakenly move in. You left out the part where you turned your head just to the side, half looking and half hiding. It's not possible to be so shy. To laugh so loud and talk so long and get so small so fast. I chewed my lower lip off just thinking about it, that moment by the window. I cut my finger just thinking about it, absent-mindedly staring past the kitchen wall while making dinner last night. I pressed a towel into my hand and it felt like kissing you might feel if you weren't so far away and scattered apart. If you weren't 5 different people in 5 different lives, distant strangers and willful companions. back-forth