Shaving my legs. It’s a lunch date and my heart isn’t in it. I’m not getting laid, but I shave my legs anyway. My underwear matches, so it’s lingerie. But a primary color, a trustworthy color, and my heart isn’t in it. I seduce with black, maroon; the colors of night, of purpose, of posture; I seduce with fall nail colors, not summer. Yet I shave my legs and oil up and apply lipstick but don’t straighten my hair. It’s raining, and this is just a pit stop.
I spot you and my heart falls. You wear your jeans like a dad. In my own mid-rise, I strive for Cindy Crawford, c. 1991. The mole is implicit. Every day, I try to move like Jordan Baker in her whites.
Cradling my tea, I close my eyes to fall into your blood-orange world. My hood is on and I’m swaddled in blanket and the winter sun strolls through my bay windows and it’s twenty-three degrees and all my face feels is that star’s warmth.
I close my eyes to meditate, to cherish, to luxuriate in you being within me. A deep closed-mouth inhale releases all of you to my ends. You come in from everywhere. Straight to my center, just to flow throughout me. My breaths renew your slow roar.
We are expansive.
You are perfect. Under my palms, your muscles follow your every command, stretching and tightening to bring us closer.
I can climb you to heaven. You’re always here. My beautiful, wild mountain, calling me to my most basic need: to summit you through prostration. I’ll throw myself onto my belly, glad to embrace even more of you as we move toward and beyond. I want to slide, caked in your mud. I want every ride with you. With you, to breathe is life.