I don’t want to talk. Not this morning. It’s just… the words don’t seem like they’ll be able to capture it, you know? At least not the words I can find. But the feeling is heavy. The good heavy. When we just know it’s one of those moments. When what is, what was, and what could be perform some perfectly choreographed dance to the acoustic version of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Hysteric.”. I don’t want to talk this morning, but I want to bury my face in your hair. I want to smush my nose against the back of your neck. Gently, of course. I want this to make you do the little spoon shimmy back into me. Smush is so a word. I’m only going to answer questions with mmmmhmmm or unh uhhhhhh. Though most things will get a mmmhmmmm. And you know it. And I hear birds outside, complaining about the starting of the rain. But it just makes you purrrrr. Softly. You ask me if I have any pressing plans for the day. I put my hand on that spot just above where your right hip curves in, and mmmmmm because your tank top has moved up — probably when you starfished earlier and nearly knocked me on the floor — and my hand is on bare skin. Your bare skin. I focus every bit of desire and affection and… more to my hand, in hopes of making you feel it. I need you to feel it. And the covers seem like a shield. To me. Questions and doubts bounce off the odd couple of your expensive new sheets and your childhood banky and are rendered impotent. A word one never wants to use in this setting, but with you, there, it doesn’t seem remotely possible. I sleepychuckle thinking about you hitting me for calling it a “banky” that time. I kiss the back of your neck when I remember you telling me some more about your background last night. Your story. I like knowing. I told you I like knowing, but words also didn’t seem enough then. I showed you though. I showed you. It still hangs in the air. Some magical trophy. You play with my toes. With your toes. My eyes are closed, but I can tell you’re smiling. This is going to sound weird. I know this is going to sound weird, but I kinda hope I kept you up late enough last night that you have the slightest of little lines under your eyes today. I don’t know how, but they make you even more beautiful. It’s like a reminder for when I get lost in the rest of your face, to look at your eyes. To really look at your eyes. I kiss the back of your shoulder. I say “soft skin” but I’m not sure if you hear it. I kiss again. We’re both writing about this in our heads already. Maybe we’ll compare notes later. Maybe we’ll just stay here instead. Right here. I slide my hand around to your stomach. I pull you closer to me. You slide your hand around to the small of my back and do the same. Any space between us would be offensive. I want to write you a song. I want to kiss every inch of you. Later. When I’m less comfy. I don’t really write songs. You tell me our breathing is in synch. You say not like the band. I whisper that I… want it… that way… You laugh. Too loud for our little nest. I smile. You move your hand up and caress my cheek. You say,” You…” My breathing speeds up. You play with my stubble. You mention the Seinfeld character “Prickly Pete” and I am only really half listening to the words, because I’m frolicking in the sounds. And loving how perfectly your mouth creates them.
I don’t want to talk, baby.
I really don’t.
But I could listen to you all day.