Du Chronicles d’une femme enamoure: Entre #12
I missed having moments like these. Alone together. Together alone. Relaxed. Talking. Mindlessly singing.
I feel silly though. I was going through my notebook and noticed only now that I am stumped once again with my writing. Stumped even with all the poetry I have surrounded myself with. Time lost its watch once again, the world its senses of direction and gravity. Nothing and nobody exists. Nobody but —
*sigh*
Why can’t I write about him, around him, while everything is still beautiful? I don’t want to end up writing only after the whole thing has blown up in my face again. Yes, the writings usually turn out better, but when they do, they give me heart attacks.
Being enamored does have its down side.
I wonder if Winterson wrote The Passion while her body was stiff with sex?
He is heartbreakingly beautiful under the porch lights…
and then, isobel asks me, “isn’t it dreary there? what ever do you two do?” i answer:
oh. quite a lot.
we kiss. we hug. we wrestle. we dance. we go to school. we declare our own holidays. we watch double features at the local cinema. we scour thrift shops.
sometimes, we just stay in his room. i clean the nails of his graceful fingers and he massages my heel-weary feet. i’d feign slumber so i’d hear him pick up his guitar and sing to me softly. he reads me neruda, i smother him with winterson. when tired of being literary, we throw the books away and just kisskisskiss. he makes me the best coffee and i make circles of smoke spin and diasappear around him.
on lazy afternoons, we sprawl on his bed, look out the window and watch the sky until it turns into the deepest blue hue…
i could go on, but then again, i’d rather not bore you…
