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By chris Date: 2007 May 21 Comment on this Work [[2007.05.21.00.56.15258]] |
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It's hot out there, suddenly summer, suddenly monsoon moisture slicks your hair back, spread out against the pillow like an antebellum fan for bayou afternoons. The air is still; it waits. The glass of water on the nightstand sweats moisture and secrets, there being more wet at that moment than the air can hold. I leave to turn on some music (always a soundtrack) and the walls look almost black with the still shadows tattooed on them. We hear thunder, somewhere. Soon rain will fall. Later, lost in the trackless everglade of beat and conga, lost in you, I realize that music is sex, dance the surrogate for desire made manifest. But I suspect you knew this all along, and I watch the buttons give way and your white shirt fall, your skin as brown and beautiful as the mesa country after a month without rain. |