sometimes, no words: only metaphor

Recorded,
so I can remember.
Slows the Cedar Song
Exposing her quiet steps
Spill down a porch lit road.



Letter-Fiction
An Exercise-Experiment,
Getting in the Mood



It was the first morning he called her beautiful.

She had just gotten done getting herself off in the bathroom. She wondered how large a portion of her life had been spent in various bathrooms, masturbating. Holding her breath as the sensations poured over her. Probably a sizable chunk of time, yes, certainly. Now she was sitting at her desk, happily lining up small piles of salted almonds still in the shell, fresh blueberries, and vitamins. Her hair was a mess. It was always a mess. She cracked the husks of the nuts slowly and deliberately, savoring the dry, brittle popping noises and the messy shards of shell that fluttered to the desk. Her female cat, the long haired one with the wide, green eyes, was sitting at her feet perfectly still, watching her with those huge, black swimming pupils. No almonds for her- besides, she really just wanted to be petted. The feline watched as she swallowed her pills one by one, cautiously so as not to encounter the inevitable catching of one in her throat, that disgusting lump feeling that lingered for hours after.

She was still basking in it. The glorified satisfaction of the night prior, and of awakening early to the curve of his body, good coffee, classical music...oh, how she adored the lewd, whispered Spanish in her ear. She could get used to it, to him. Her days had been brighter lately, and her nights both amorous and quiescent, something akin to perfect.
They would take turns reading to one another,
and he would make her hot, buttery grilled cheese; they mixed mate and chianti in their stomachs with a glowing glee painted across both their faces,
sparkling eyes and flushed, warm cheeks.

Time to get down to business. She wanted to run a few miles and share this energy with the outside air, maybe masturbate again before class-but only after she stopped by the store for cinnamon. He had mentioned baked apples earlier, when their voices were still foggy with sleep and eyes still crusty, begrudgingly opening and closing in the day's first light. She liked satisfying his sporadic cravings, and seeing that glorious flash of white suddenly appear in the midst of a sea of stubble.

She had never been good with on the spot, vocalized expression. She could sit down, when in the right frame of mind, and effortlessly flood pages and pages with eager emotion. She could leave loved ones and strangers speechless in the wake of her written word; her passion easily tumbled from her, in the disguise of letters and punctuation points and carefully chosen metaphors, falling through her fingers to decorate blank pages and white, lined canvases. However, she was not quite as blessed with the ability to fluidly articulate affections and sentiments out loud. She would stumble over explanations and stutter a little, avert her gaze as her cheeks burned rosy and tepid. She liked to think of herself as a postulant connoisseur of words. Later, she would sit and simmer in all the possibilities of witty phrasings, the responses she had longed to give whomever she had been speaking with but had been unable to find the right choice of vernacular to assign to.

However, there were exceptions. If she was in a bullshitting mood, felt no need to be sincere, or was discussing manners of s simple, casual nature- it was gravy. Easy, baby. She could hold her own in these situations, and keep a steady hand and graceful mouth. It was when meaningful circumstances that stirred powerful pathos in her arose that her tongue tied itself in knots like cherry stems, sexy but useless.

So she had not surprised herself when she choked when he asked her, very persistently, the night before:
"What do you think about me?"

Her mind went blank. Wide open space and static, a gentle panic. How to describe the indescribable? Can't be done, writer or not. Her problem was, she couldn't accept this fact- stubborn shrew. She liked to try too hard. Stop it. There was such a thing as wasting time while
trying to impress.
Soul meets body.
Remember to breathe.
Tacit thoughts trembled like dewdrops on early morning lawns, threatening to clumsily spill down the blades with no regard to poise or pizazz. She lost herself in them and her lips were suddenly chapped, cracking a little at the edges. Her legs, bare beneath his old high school track shorts, were goosebumped and nervous jiggling.

She came to and found she was rambling.
God, what an idiot.
She briefly considered groaning in frustration but kept batting words around instead.

He was contemplative, patient, and romantic- tangled around her, eager for feedback. They were freshly showered and cozy and warm, tucked into the nook of couch cushions and wooden walls with bookshelves and canoe paddles and rain-forest blankets.

What she wanted to say was,
"I think you're stunning.
Breath stealing in all your mannerism rhythms,
lulling me into a hypnotic, ecstatic state
altering between peace, volatility, and carnality.
I like the way you jump and jolt in your sleep.
I like the way you always thank me,
so appreciative,
even when it is unnecessary or without real reason.
I like the way you are so involved in the lives and joys of others. Your loyalty, your ferocious compassion, quiet but fierce,
like a leopard, active and powerfully strong even while lounging in the heat.
I think you are blood of the earth.
Directly plugged into nature's core,
pertinently and inherently earth-bound and yet destined for the Great Beyond.
I like your raw spirituality,
how it seeps from your pores and casts a soft glow around every movement, every nuance.
I like your dark sensuality,
your hummingbird mind-
always busy, always flitting-flying in several directions, all the time (rapidly spinning, colorful blur of gems, fireworks, sparks, nectar).
I like your wide open eyes, your avoidance of the prevalent blindness sweeping societies,
observant and constant fidelity-
to questioning, delving, to living and loving life,
your loved ones, yourself,
the world.
I think you have a sparkling presence.
A gem of a judicious, perennial soul- a rarity,
with the ability to permeate and permutate, provoke change liberally.
I like your pure, undiluted sincerity. Your honesty, sometimes perfectly brutal,
but always in good taste:
I like your sarcasm, your opinionated, loud-mouthed, smart-ass spunk.
I like how you are not afraid, in the least,
LET GO.
(Release)
I like the boy in you-
your youthful spirit,
that childlike joyousness you have maintained and will always contain within...
and the man,
(from which stems that gorgeous and favored temporal laugh, post intimate acts)
the writer too.
(spectacularly woven webs of words that spin me up, wrapped in splendor and awe)
I like the boy scout in you,
showing his face sporadically through bouts of beautiful-useful-
handy-dandy-nonsense,
vivacious, innocent excitement.
I like the dirty, the nitty gritty, the violent, morbid, obscure propensities of your riddle.
I like how intuitive you are,
and how you read my body, my eyes, my vibes, my mind
like a worn in, favorite book-
nearly a second nature (every corner, every nook.)
I like you, your epic kindness, your perseverance and tenacity.
I like the hopeless romantic, the scientist, the intellect, the father, the missionary, the monk, the cynic,
the activist, the people pleasing politician, the hippie, the mentor/teacher and counselor/listener, the artist, the carpenter, the comedian, the performer, the philosopher, the perfectionist, the chatterbox, the worrywart/over analyzer, the historian, the cultured world traveler, the journalist.
I like every devotion, prayer, belief, ache, longing, restlessness, obsession, quirk.
I like you,
my wild colibrí, grizzly mountain man,
always in motion, changing,
with your inherent curiosity,
in all your whiskey drinking, manual laboring, outdoor-frequenting glory..
sexy little moments, country-boy materialization:
Your peekaboo accents send me spinning into giddy arousal.
I like the way you look at me when you want to kiss me,
how often you steal my breath..
I love your unrestrained laugh and that sparkle you get in your dreamer's eyes,
your weak stomach and your fear of death.
I love your vernacular and diction, your pouf of hair and sensual chameleon eyes, your flow and your friction.
I adore watching you...
how you move in the water,
how you play your music, how your music plays you,
how your singing moves and touches, resonates deeply-
how you let it, feel the beauty and omnipotence of the rhythm rip through you.
I like your incredible taste, (in everything),
getting in your car and hearing backwoods bluegrass playing,
coming home..
to you.
to fabulous new vinyl, good wine, chocolate, favorite groceries, tea already brewing, bedroom air thickening and smoky with nagchampa
and sex.
I like that you would do anything for me,
and how evident this is in every move you make,
and I like the steady-handed awareness within my core
that I would sprint to the ends of the earth and back for you,
give up all of myself...
that there is nothing I wouldn't do
or sacrifice
for your contentment,
not even my life.
I love how you fuck me.
The ways you make love to me,
the way your tongue parts me masterfully,
how perfect it feels to have you inside of my warm, moist depths,
how flawlessly our bodies fit together,
as though they were formed from mold that was meant to form-fit,
two pieces of a larger than life jigsaw puzzle separated at birth (reunited).
I love how you love, and know how, to fortuitously make use of your hands, body, mind, eyes, and voice
to the best of your ability...far more than most.
I like how you always give homeless men one beer,
how you always give me the last bite,
or the most flavorful slice of pizza.
I like how excited you get at every and any opportunity to make me smile or laugh.
I think you are this shimmering ball of radiant energy,
a dynamic, mellifluous shade of blue...
calming and possessing absolute peace yet harnessing sheer power:
my kundalini shakti.
I like your modesty, humbleness,
and yet your delicious confidence:
you know and love who you are, are are never scared to be yourself.
I adore your passion- how much you give all of yourself,
put all of your effort into, and pride yourself in
the things you do...
possessing true devotion.
I like how you refuse to settle for mediocrity,
and constantly push and challenge yourself,
and others, especially me-
I like that keep me accountable, how you make me work for it,
and how you endlessly and imcomprehensibly make me a better woman, a better human.
I like your nervousness during scary movies,
and that you are active, reactive, and proactive.
I like how much of a storyteller you are:
a spectacular performer of many trades...
your enthusiasm, animation, expressiveness,
painted across every exquisite inch of your face,
woven into your body language,
shimmering in your words.
I like that you get as hot about my talents, weird tendencies, quirks
as I do about yours.
I like that you are real-
you aren't the least bit pretentious or artificial,
attempting to woo me:
that when the resplendent words you are so capable of leave your lips,
when you tell me pretty things,
i know you mean them.
I think you are a magnificent elucidation of Balance...
even in your most crazed, chaotic moments:
silly and playful, a cheeky and grand sense of humor,
and yet serious at all the right moments/
affectionate and yet valuing of space: both yours and mine/
respectful, such a gentleman/an asshole when you need to be.
I like your dirty mouth and your titillating sexuality
I like how detail- oriented you are.
You make note of the little things,
the ones others never notice,
and take time to savor lifes simple pleasures.
I love that you understand the importance of holding things between excess.
You don't overdo it..
and you kiss me at just the right moments, but never too much,
you hold out, make me wait,
and ache,
and make me all the more awe-struck when you finally propitiate.
I adore your fierce independence, and the way you withdraw within yourself, do your own thing for hours on end, immerse yourself in you, and what satisfies your soul.
I like how you always open the door for me. Run on the outside. Give me the hot water. Sleep on the floor near me when I pass out on the couch. Are my alarm clock, even on grumpybitch mornings.
I think your corazón is pure, solid gold,
and the most luxuriant, sparklingly bright, captivating treasure,
gift,
I have ever been lucky enough to be graced with the presence of.
I love that you bury your face in the back of my hair. I want you to stay there,
to stay here
with me,
always."


She did not say any of those things. After his inquiry, cross-examination for sake of honesty, she just smiled mysteriously at him, and babbled like a chatty Cathy brook in spring's first wing stretching. After all, she was an avid proponent of letting the most powerful unmentionables remain unspoken.

Not unwritten, mind you.