2. an art studio for karen

3. a writing studio/office for me

4. a sensually decorated master bedroom

5.

parents teach children to be selfish, rearing their innocents into lost and unstable adults, prurient playmates who use lust as a weapon.

mother, father, sisters and brothers branch off in every direction, pack the kitchen table with too many chairs heartbeats people breathing, but there is only awkward pretending between them; no humanity, no love.

mothers divorce fathers, children leave home for paintsmelling apartments, the young become the old, 15 year old raises 9 year old while woman works three jobs and man wastes away in the dark.

Conflicting dreams I could follow, goals I could pursue, lives I could lead–

But we can only lead one life.

I–

(because it made me ache, deep,
sour-sweet and hollow,
to see how you’d grown old.)

I kissed–

(because your age was oppressive:
it stuffed my ears with cotton,
made the atmosphere thick like oil through water,
begging to be stirred.)

your mouth–

(we were begging to be stirred.)

Wrinkles, jowls, silver-rough cheek– oh!

I did not anticipate the cold,
The dampness,
your tongue heavy on my lips (stubble
scraped my jaw).

When I kissed you, I did not expect return,
pressed hard between your body and the wall.

I exhaled cautiously,
not comprehending your hands upon me, nor
your foggy breath, heartbeat, ribcage;
amazed by your skin, the little pores and hairs.
You breathed – I gasped at the realness of it.

They’re the ones I can run buck-naked into a dark ocean with, sit silently around a bonfire with.  It’s an easy companionship- undemanding, unassuming; simple and right. Different interests, different friends, but- we’re the same, on a deeper, silent level. Free of judgement.

I miss them.

I miss a lot of people, but it comes and goes in shifts.  One at a time, one group or pair or person at a time.  Little reminders set off bursts of loneliness, hollow sweetly-bitter longing.  Moments of clear, beautiful humanity, honest human connection.

I miss these two, in particular.

Because she is bitchy, and shallow, and spoiled, and unsatisifed, and when I remember her it is that last image, naked on a night with no moon, waves crashing around her ankles, hard-earned tan browning her body except for the glowing white triangles of her breasts, her pubic region.  It is nudity without lust, without assumption, black curls bouncing and mouth calling a raunchy tune. 

He is thoughtful, and loud, and immature, and honest, self-conscious confidence rough-nasal voice cracking salty air, shifting sandy gears, mourning dead friends but living, living still, as we run among the waves and salt water pushes inside me, cold, and our laughter is bright and sharp and alive under this dark, familiar sky.

That easiness, when nothing matters except now, between the sand and the sky and the sea, briny driftwood smoke-scents.  Comfort.