It’s like if I caught my heart and held it captive. In the suburbs or in the country. We read books and we read more books. We take the words and devolve them into sounds: a vowel, a guttural hmmm, a sinking-into-night.
Becoming plaid. I cross stitch and you “make pizza,” adding tiny green olives to the Tostinos crust, the same one we greet as cardboard at the door, crossing into the threshold of salt.
The day has birthed us into the middle aged people we will soon become. The tired way we now take escalators, as if guarding against the silence of the day we can’t. Won’t.
This evening Bonnie Raitt makes us both cry. We see some hills light up golden behind a double rainbow. ‘I can’t not take a picture of this” you say. You take a black and white of the rainbow, alone behind a wall. It’s the Noir filter. ‘It looks more interesting this way,’ you say. I feel my cells splitting, refracting against themselves. We enter a bookstore that contains books about cooking. I get lost in the minutiae of dolphin wind bells, coin purses of women with parasols , and a book of puppies, swimming.
When we leave the store I am an accidental thief. The rainbow has stepped back into the sky. It’s like- I was looking for something no one has ever found.
It might be enough. To get lost later in the scent of your beard, the rhythm of your hands in an order of touch I crave. Sex is like a symphony, I sometimes say. Like a photograph of the stars. But really it is a falling. There is no other word.