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Description
It’s a whole mix of things, really. What your plate-collecting neighbor might call an offensive mélange. Shapes and flashes of only what matters.

The way bare breasts look so much more satisfying in a fitted shirt than their assisted peers. Her walking around like this, in only this. How you can tell the color of her eyes when the lights are out (every speck of green rimming auburn, striated perfection). Pressing frozen fingertips against chapped lips. Careful clinging in suits of soap.

And after a while you start to love the smell of her cigarettes. After a while you hate her shampoo because of the scent it removes. (And oh how they told you in school that scent elicits emotion!) After a while none of it makes any sense, because you’d adore her if she were covered in motor oil and 100 pounds closer to a record. It was just a kiss it was just a touch. Never before has any human longed for a 10 by 14 foot cinderblock room as you do. It’s only her only her inside.

But everything on the outside gets the volume turned down. You find yourself asking everyone to repeat (“What?”) only to find it was just as dull the second time around. Your mind plays tricks on everything, showing her everywhere, even though you know there is no chance of replication. And yet you stare at windowpanes and saltshakers and staircases like a bad case of LSD to find her, actually there. Actually everywhere.

Go ahead. Compare her to the girls on the platforms and find no equals. Look across counters and intersections and into magazines. Plead for a rival to challenge this unearthly mess. Smile on the subway and grin in the café and beam at the window displays because there are none.

And the pain of forgetting for just one moment. Life does go on, with or without you, and silly little obligations cloud your adoration. Print this write this send this say this. Rinse repeat until you’re off your feet, flying to catch the train.

But coming home! From behind she circles arms about you and bares eager teeth. Fingers hook waistlines and tug tug to her. Buttons pass through buttonholes and zippers unlock their teeth in this frenzied progression. Painted white pulls at pumping blood just below the surface of your back. Together clumsily collapse onto the pile of coils that make up your bed. Spread yourself across her and block out the day. Rush back to all that scent brings.

In the infamous words of Borchert, “Er dachte immerzu an das Wort Paradies...”

Description
It’s a whole mix of things, really. What your plate-collecting neighbor might call an offensive mélange. Shapes and flashes of only what matters.

The way bare breasts look so much more satisfying in a fitted shirt than their assisted peers. Her walking around like this, in only this. How you can tell the color of her eyes when the lights are out (every speck of green rimming auburn, striated perfection). Pressing frozen fingertips against chapped lips. Careful clinging in suits of soap.

And after a while you start to love the smell of her cigarettes. After a while you hate her shampoo because of the scent it removes. (And oh how they told you in school that scent elicits emotion!) After a while none of it makes any sense, because you’d adore her if she were covered in motor oil and 100 pounds closer to a record. It was just a kiss it was just a touch. Never before has any human longed for a 10 by 14 foot cinderblock room as you do. It’s only her only her inside.

But everything on the outside gets the volume turned down. You find yourself asking everyone to repeat (“What?”) only to find it was just as dull the second time around. Your mind plays tricks on everything, showing her everywhere, even though you know there is no chance of replication. And yet you stare at windowpanes and saltshakers and staircases like a bad case of LSD to find her, actually there. Actually everywhere.

Go ahead. Compare her to the girls on the platforms and find no equals. Look across counters and intersections and into magazines. Plead for a rival to challenge this unearthly mess. Smile on the subway and grin in the café and beam at the window displays because there are none.

And the pain of forgetting for just one moment. Life does go on, with or without you, and silly little obligations cloud your adoration. Print this write this send this say this. Rinse repeat until you’re off your feet, flying to catch the train.

But coming home! From behind she circles arms about you and bares eager teeth. Fingers hook waistlines and tug tug to her. Buttons pass through buttonholes and zippers unlock their teeth in this frenzied progression. Painted white pulls at pumping blood just below the surface of your back. Together clumsily collapse onto the pile of coils that make up your bed. Spread yourself across her and block out the day. Rush back to all that scent brings.

In the infamous words of Borchert, “Er dachte immerzu an das Wort Paradies...”