falling blindly with no resistance.
an unopened bottle of champagne sits on the floor near my bedroom door.
we lie in bed weak from martinis and whiskey
and he reaches over and says “good morning sweetheart”.
my succulent plants can no longer face the cold temps of my winter new york bedroom
and my once white rug is now a grey blur.
his beard tickles my neck as i listen to my neighbor’s heels clap on the floor above.
for a split second i can see clouds surround our bodies.
gravity is a lost concept and i’ve never felt so high and so sober in one moment.
i am being held by the kindest man known to mankind,
and in this hour i’m not fretting about when i will see him next
or if he likes me back.
rather, my mind is serene and my body is still
and all of me feels pleasant.
flowers don’t bloom in the fall because even roses can feel sadness from separated lovers.
as i get older, things change.
my stepdad was mentally and emotionally abusive growing up.
now, i see his desperate yearning to be a better person.
the sun hiding behind the clouds
wanting to break the horizon.
he is too proud to apologize for the damage he’s caused me,
but he no longer needs to.
he is a better father to my brother and sister
and i couldn’t ask for a better apology than that.
as i get older, feelings change.
my dads mom, i call her “gammy”.
i never had a true relationship with her when i was young.
my dad would force me to visit her sometimes
and i always dreaded it.
but i must say,
stopping by her house to have breakfast with her
on my way down to florida was one of the most valuable
mornings of my life.
i gained a new, unexplainable appreciation for her.
i was sad to leave her.
my moms biological mother,
she never really knew me growing up.
she would get all her grandkids ornaments every christmas.
when i was 18 she got me a ballerina ornament thinking that i danced.
i hadn’t danced in 11 years.
i went to go visit her one thanksgiving.
we spent thanksgiving just her and i.
it was the most enchanting thanksgiving.
we cooked all the foods,
and i love food, especially thanksgiving food.
we also made the most delicious hot chocolate
and talked about why she wasn’t there for
my mom and aunts and uncles when they were young.
she told me her own mother never told her
she loved her until she was 31 years old.
that’s when i realized life will throw some real fucked up curveballs
and you will have no clue how to hit them.
when you bring life into this world,
you have to do what’s best for that life,
even if it tears your heart and soul out.
so maybe she did the right thing.
as i get older, actions change.
my most prized possessions are no longer
a build-a-bear from the boyfriend of the season
or a necklace from tiffany’s,
rather they are the crocheted blankets that my grandmother
spent hours upon hours making for me for my graduation.
my pen pal is no longer a stranger from tinder
or my crush of a coworker,
but rather my great aunt,
who’s cursive always tilts to the west
and remembers my birthday without a facebook reminder.
as i get older,
i am starting to become a woman i never thought i’d be
in the best way possible.
i am wanting to rekindle old flames with friends who’ve lost matches
and send postcards to people i’ve only just met.
and i’m only 23.
i’ve got my whole life ahead of me.
when i hear your name, i can’t help but to think of palm trees taking a liking to the wind,
swaying drunkenly to the beat of the heat of the sun.
and for some reason i always feel like tickling you.
yes, tickling you.
if i were to tickle you, it would allow me to touch you
while conceiving a combustion of sound waves that could make a prisoner feel free,
a poor man feel rich, the dead feel life.
a smile more perfect than a crescent moon
and a laugh so gentle that your very breath could create a house of cards
and soothe the winds of a hurricane.
if we ever kiss, i would imagine that you would grab my body gently
as if not to assert your masculinity too strongly,
and your virility and my femininity would create a third grade science experiment,
a tornado in a bottle,
a volcano on the table.
there is something about you that i take delight in.
you make me nervous.
and you make me hot.
and it was a pleasure to meet you.
the way he says “yumm” makes you wish that you were that half eaten bag of haribo gummi bears.
he makes an onomatopoeia sound like a noun of forbidden paradise.
that which is forbidden strikes an urge somewhere in my body.
he has a way of saying it that sounds church boy-like and sexual-like at the same time.
his lips locking at the very sound of the consonant “m”.
i tell ya, i wanna be his spoon when he eats his ice cream and his fingers when he licks the residue of potato chips.
i wanna be the songs that he sings and the black coffee that he drinks.
i wanna make him say “yumm”.