I find myself thinking
about her. I taste her kiss under the
layer of my breath, a pheromone swelling more familiar, a luxury of calm, an
aged whiskey natural of oaken barrel travel the redolent wisp of an autumn trail. Maybe we were meant to meet in this
season. The city flush with perfected
chilled temperance, a sunny breeze off the Mississippi River cradling under the
neck, nape turned and ready for a kiss pulling in ready for the moment of grip. Slipping and sliding into the forgiveness of
indulgent patience, to get to know another human being, the idiosyncratic
tendencies, peccadillos, and mannerisms.
Graces of sandy time dusting off the dresser drawers seeing a woman
naked, heavenly wrinkles and that gloriously sexy acceptance of growth,
perpetual and usurping vanity for the true pursuit.
The tone of Boston in
her chords, the Massachusetts imprint Tom Brady cheer section and the green
monster of will this ever get over the fence.
The canines and the hair sweeps of forget, a woman that knows what she
likes to drink and is willing to ask, the temperance to go to the show alone
stare and in and be where she needs.
That lack of the frenetic is gilded.
Life can be simple if you let it and the universe if it were coming
together in this aperture would feel appropriate. Summoning the bravery to be witnessed, to be
complicated. Maybe magic does exist.
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