I like to pick you up from work. You're simple and never wear any makeup in your little half sweater things. I can't explain those sorts of details so I won't try. I wait outside your work until I see you, sitting alone waiting for me to pull up. I like to catch you before you know I’m watching, it’s like stealing a little bit of light. But you always find my eyes and off we go.
Whenever I stop feeling things, shit gets bad. I start day trading or over eating. Filling up the space where I should be writing with something mundane and thoughtless, like hanging a picture. Or sweeping up your garage. Getting the spiderwebs off the lights above your front door. Wiping the edges clean with a small tissue. I do all of this while you’re out. Sometimes I take off my clothes before doing it, because I know I’m gonna sweat. Cleaning up your house, running up and down the stairs. Sometimes I just put what I was wearing when I get there in the washing machine, so when I finish I can shower in your bathroom. And then go downstairs, and take out my newly washed and dried things and put them on. I close your front door, and I feel like your man again. Driving down the hill back into nothing.
Driving around Los Angeles is a version of cleaning your garage. You can kill a lot of time that way, trying to get places. All the while there’s a little rat inside of you, chewing away at your heart and whatever machine you use to feel things. I can’t feel anything. I don’t feel close to you. I don’t feel close to anyone.
I need encounters to remind me I’m alive, I need wild arms looking for me. This is what keeps me alive. I’m waiting. I’m writing. I need to put a light back into the sky.
When you see my face it’s pure love, not the kind of love you read about. It’s soul love, old love, the kind of feeling that will outlive your fleshy body. And you know it as its happening. You recognize and respect and totally surrender to it. When you run towards me I always get lower to the ground and bend my knees - anticipating you. Then you hit my arms like a little car, and sometimes I wanna go backwards and let it just wash me down. I pick you up and spin you in a circle, look you in the eyes. I know these little times are what we’re supposed to be doing. What we’re supposed to be feeling. Alright, I think to myself. You’re not lost yet, five minutes out of the day today you felt god in your arms and nobody else needs know about it, or feel it or can even truly comprehend the levels of it.
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Whenever I stop feeling things, shit gets bad. I start day trading or over eating. Filling up the space where I should be writing with something mundane and thoughtless, like hanging a picture. Or sweeping up your garage. Getting the spiderwebs off the lights above your front door. Wiping the edges clean with a small tissue. I do all of this while you’re out. Sometimes I take off my clothes before doing it, because I know I’m gonna sweat. Cleaning up your house, running up and down the stairs. Sometimes I just put what I was wearing when I get there in the washing machine, so when I finish I can shower in your bathroom. And then go downstairs, and take out my newly washed and dried things and put them on. I close your front door, and I feel like your man again. Driving down the hill back into nothing.
Driving around Los Angeles is a version of cleaning your garage. You can kill a lot of time that way, trying to get places. All the while there’s a little rat inside of you, chewing away at your heart and whatever machine you use to feel things. I can’t feel anything. I don’t feel close to you. I don’t feel close to anyone.
I need encounters to remind me I’m alive, I need wild arms looking for me. This is what keeps me alive. I’m waiting. I’m writing. I need to put a light back into the sky.
When you see my face it’s pure love, not the kind of love you read about. It’s soul love, old love, the kind of feeling that will outlive your fleshy body. And you know it as its happening. You recognize and respect and totally surrender to it. When you run towards me I always get lower to the ground and bend my knees - anticipating you. Then you hit my arms like a little car, and sometimes I wanna go backwards and let it just wash me down. I pick you up and spin you in a circle, look you in the eyes. I know these little times are what we’re supposed to be doing. What we’re supposed to be feeling. Alright, I think to myself. You’re not lost yet, five minutes out of the day today you felt god in your arms and nobody else needs know about it, or feel it or can even truly comprehend the levels of it.
