She has no reason to worry because I’m not going anyplace.
I still want her in big and small ways. Nothing has changed. I just sometimes need a break from staring at the computer’s frozen face.
And it’s incredible how we both jump to the same troubling conclusions because we’re not used to anyone really being into us and going the extra mile for us.
I want to put my arms around her like the sun and quiet her worries that I’ve found someone else to smear my words all over like sunscreen or whipped cream.
The words pour from me like a fire hydrant in Brooklyn in the 1970’s. This was when the prostitute was New York's state bird and you could pick up any drug on any corner for a relatively low price.
This was way before political correctness bit us in the ass and the Christian right took us hostage with their narrow minded views on everything and anything under the sun. I want to live my life on my own terms and not have to always worry about the next shoe to drop especially when I’ve been going barefoot since before the serpent penetrated Eve for the final time.
Make way I’m coming and I’m bringing buttery popcorn and ice-cream and chocolate and all of those things you love to nosh on but can’t because of your diet.
She doesn’t have to worry about me leaving the building because I’ve been a shut-in since before I can even remember. Solitary confinement means nothing to me not since discovering how vast a kingdom my mind is.
And it’s truly amazing how we both suffer from low self-esteem. It makes sense though when physical intimacy is something neither one of us has experienced in more than a coon’s age. And we’re both getting older. And we’re both getting wiser. And we’re both getting lonelier.
I want her to put both her arms around me like I am the moon and this nursery rhyme will come to fruition once we let go of all those pesky voices in our butterfly hearts and cement block heads.