My own work, or liver, as you like. Whether or not it creates true magic is up to you. Shame I missed Love Letter month on sleep.snort.fuck. Two little pieces, one general theme, one dedication.
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Let’s be stuck in a car together. I want just you, and maybe a few bottles of water to counteract the chips and chocolate (as a car needs gas, so travelers need junk food). You’ll be at my side all down California 101—or all up it? I want to lie with you on some off-road beach, so south to Monterey and sea otters. Salt and sand and cool breezes; maybe we can scare the kids out of the aquarium and luxuriate in blue ripples through glass with reef sharks for company. Even if the only voice for four hours is the radio, I want you there so our ardor builds with every humming mile to be released at a B&B where even the rose-patterned dust ruffle recoils from our language.
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Decompression chamber 497b, transitioning me from ground to sky to new earth. The cheap sheets, freshly enseamed, rasp my skin, and they chafed me during our reconsummation. But he is soft, jigsawed into my curves, ruffling strands of my mussed hair with every snore. I press my shoulder blades toward his heart, attempting osmosis.
In a few minutes, I will rise to wash the recirculated air from my lungs. And he will help, with gentle hands coated in cold shower gel, shocking me into laughter as I stretch twelve hours and three months and an ocean away.
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New book review once I finish Catherine M. Valente's Palimpsest. Veeeeery interesting. May need to digest it for a bit.
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