Leave it to him to go and uproot the gradually established
foundation,
with a mere declaration of inclination, (ah, these new sensations)
that was everything I thought I knew about *** and my anticipated participation in it.
I was confident and comfortable, I admit it,
to settling warm and boring in the list of 'never been *****'.
Never adorning to the glory of the morning
after
where pillows and sheets are shared
with spoonings and sweet nothings and laughter, and oh, how I
care
to finally share with him places inside myself I've never dared
let come to light before—this sensation entirely new and rare
and candidly honest.
To be fair, it isn't easy for me to express, and oh how I would
attest
to the best way to attain truth and satisfaction, for it's a rickety bridge to cross when I've claimed
I can't experience ****** attraction.
But my darling whatever it is you've awakened demands I take action
because I am listening to the hum of desire
and with it feel the roasting of my ***** in that brand new fire
like the Renaissance and a brightening sky at dawn.
It's withdrawn, but symbolic and poised, like the flight of a dove.
After all, isn't there a reason they call it
Making Love?
All other romantic pursuits forgone,
You’ve thus far managed to do the unthinkable; you turn me on
and I can feel the lust searing from the inside,
out,
while I'm hearing your revering and circumstance prevents me to
doubt
that this hedonistic dream I'm fearing has been nearing me
in an ambush that began with September thirteen—
an exciting, hazardous route
down a path of love and a cornucopia of potential yet to be seen.
I love you not as a passing season or a fleeting
whim;
I love you terribly and without practical reason;
your name glued to my heart with toxic adhesion; a world without you now proves pretty
dim
And the *** part—



Life is intimate and if I'm going to be, too, it'll be with him.

the insomniac’s apple tree and a pig paler than its own star

the pinky swearing ghost of my rib

University midterm periods bring early mornings charged with energy drinks and espresso shots. Evenings are spent trading quizlets in Bass Library or in late night cram sessions in the common room. After several days of stressful testing, midterms suddenly end.

But we’re like those Indianapolis race cars that’ve just run 500 laps, we come off our midterm tracks with our proverbial metal popping and creaking from intense heat and stress. For the first day or so after midterms I can’t sit still. I pace around like I’ve forgotten something—then it sinks in—I can have fun, in fact, it may be mandatory.

My bf Peter is spending spring break with me—for the most part in my dorm room. It’s night two of our 18 romantic days and nights. We spent our first day wending around campus. Peter went here for years—earning his master’s and PhD here. He knows Yale even better than I do—it’s a nostalgia tour for him—he works for CERN in Geneva now (Europe’s most boring city—I think that’s their tourism tagline).

As we lay snuggled in my twin-sized dorm room bed, beneath one of my very freshly laundered sheets, it’s about 41°F and windy. I keep my lattice windows wide open, because I like to sleep cold, with just a sheet. Peter complained once, when he’d first earned sleepover privileges—until I explained the alternatives.

We’ve been dating for over two years now, and I think he’s learned to enjoy it. An arm or a leg left outside the sheet will start to tingle after a minute but the touch of a human hand is like a soothing flame. Snuggles are welcomed and spoonings are almost required for survival.

Looking up and out, we can see the cloudless and deeply azure, New Haven sky. My mind is drifting and lazily unfocused when I realize Peter’s been talking about something.. the search for extraterrestrial life?

I begin to focus on his words, mid sentence. His voice is a low, rumbly, western drawl - think Henry Fonda in some old black & white western.
“.. when SETI’s searching the heavens (for electronic signals), they listen across a sliver of two microwave regions that are unpolluted by radio waves from natural sources.”

My head’s on his chest and I’m listening more to his warm tones than the words. I say, “Mmm-hmm” and snuggle more deeply into his warmth.

“They call these frequencies the ‘water hole,’ because they correspond to hydrogen and hydroxyl wave lengths (key components of water), in hopes that intelligent life will pick these quiet zones for communication.”

I yawn, drawing in air like a gasp and sink deliciously into his slow breathing rhythms. Peter’s a physicist (that’s spelled ‘nerd’) and I can’t say I understand more than a third of his ellipticals, but the next thing I know it’s morning.

His astronomy lesson was a lullaby.
.
.
The Flower Called Nowhere by Stereolab
Stick Figures In Love by Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
Moby Octopad by Yo La Tengo
If I Didn't Have You (Live) by Tim Minchin