Transport

Take me to where you are

I want to be beside you,

watching you sleep.

To run my fingers though

your hair, across your skin.

To look down on you, from

a vantage point just a little

above your bed.

Maybe to be able to put my

arms around you again

the way we did when we

climbed to the top of the world

together.

Before conspirators and get-down-ists

came after us trying to

destroy the mood.

But still!

Something worth recalling.

I want to be where you are,

and I wish...wish that I

were.

I wish I were with you, now,

not because where you are is

better than my green chair and

white-wood desk, or because

where you are has air

conditioning. I wish I were

with you, but not because

the hum of crickets might

lessen, or the growl of

the sleeping fridge vanish.

I wish I were with you,

not to escape the tension

or the time - 3 am leaves far

too much room for exploration -

but because there's business,

still unfinished.

Not quite touched, yet.

Your words, for example.

How confusing you manage to be,

accidentally-on-purpose.

Happy to see...and aggravated,

all in a breath,

mixing the simple elegance

with complexities.

How happy to aggravate.

I think were a little too far

off, at present

and I want to remedy that -

step up to the plate

and swing - blindfolded -

at a ball I'm not even sure

is there.

Almost no chance to hit -

but almost none is slightly

greater than

not swinging at all.

You've confused me

and intrigued me. I want to

learn what you are, now

not just who. Your dancing

doesn't give more than

brief insight - a glimpse

into the mirror while

trying to see the whole of a

house. Everything is...

relative.

I'm afraid to ask if we

can explore this together, but

I find this odd idea in my

mind that I may indeed

need to ask.

Sometime, though.

Not all at once, and not

now. Not yet.

I'm always putting things off that way.

Too soon.

Too quick.

Too...something.

Not yet.

Not. Yet.

Notyetnotyetnotyet -

And then it's gone, vanished

the way glitter does when you kill

the lights.

Out of sight, out of time.

Don't rush away on me.

Sleep...

Well, do you know what I

think?

I think this might have

potential, just because we

don't know, and not

knowing is so much more

interesting.

All the questions he could

ask, without needing to look

too deep, too much.

Too anything.

But I'm afraid, too.

Afraid that - despite

words - I'm not welcome. Not

yet. (Sound familiar? Notyetnotyet

notyet - how about now?)

What I remember best is

falling onto the stage by

mistake and whispered encouragement,

telling me to go do my thing.

And telling myself I

damn well would.

Walking up to you directly,

and wishing I had a

tie, not just a hat...

But Dan's hat looked

aight on you.

Good enough to be

mistaken, anyway.

And then...dancing.

To hoots, hollars and

grand laughter.

That's my real recall.

Our duet, on the other

hand escapes me,

mostly. The fumbles come

to mind - not quite sure

where one is supposed to

bleed into another.

But therein arises another

problem.

I want your hands.

I long for touch and

taste. To be understood in

the flesh, not just mind.

I want the weight of experience

to come crashing in, while

the fervor of youth

accompanies.

I want you to know

(though actually, I don't)

that I imagine what you might

feel like, above me. Touching me.

Since in the dance style you

favor, touching is outlawed,

anathema. A slip-up, fumble.

A problem.

You're supposed to read their

bodies, not control and guide. You

react and respond... Not create

by sheer force.

But still, I'd like to dance

dirty, one time. Just to see

where your hands go -

to my hips, or up. To my

stomach, or below.

Or if you'd hold my hands

and kiss my neck, tongue

tasting sweat-salted skin.

Images too strong and

powerful, sometimes.

I don't want an image to

have such power over me. My

mind knows and bleeds out

my part in events I'd like to

forget... Replaces time

with whatever else could be

constructed out of paper

and cooking oil.

Not making sense, now, but

thats easier to do as four am

wears on. Passing the minutes by with recollections -

almost all faulty - and

hopes - fantasies - for a future.

They told me once that

only a madman makes

his letters different

ways each time.

I look at them and wonder

because every letter is

different.

I think I might be

mad. Oh, wonderful day.