De Amore: Two Moments


I.

There are certain emotio-sensations for which I would fight all of the fiercest & most wooly of the steppe peoples.

First among these would be that warm nausea that sits smugly, all cross-armed & Indian style in my stomach when I watch you asleep in the early mornings.  You are that seven year old boy who stares at his shoes when I kiss you on the forehead, you have that smile that could save the most unrepentant of sinners.  I have to go and rush out right into that early morning sunlight that burns—its pale quality always reminds me of the moment a picture bulb flashes, everything washed out and spotted—and leave you wrapped in blankets, breathing softly.

II.

I had a wonderful time just being out with you last night—us, you & I as we began, walking without regard in the rare October chill, pasting our faces on dim bar mirrors.  The fog had gathered itself around the foothills, had lapped onto porch steps.  I was home.  I saw Cincinnati transposed on the streets of Los Angeles—Mariposa Ave.  as McMillan St., matching as print & negative; the houses of my childhood ran down Franklin.

There must be a word—most likely in ancient Greek or Japanese—for that sensation of utmost joy when one is momentarily allowed to comprehend one's full capability to love.  This is when one smiles against another's neck, this is seeing the face of God.  Last night you chose to wear your sweater & that scent knowing how much I love to collapse into your warmth, how I breathe more slowly when I work my head into the crook of your neck.  I needed that word then.

. . .

You & I, dearest, we make time one moment.  
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