January 2012
5 posts
1 tag
Foreign.
I remember my hands fumbling in 3rd grade when I first held chopsticks, I remember hearing Japanese, riding a bike, holding a camera, and feeling the shape of your lips for the very fist time. Foreign. My hands tracing over unlearned and undiscovered facets. Nothing about the firsts were familiar.
Over time - while I am not fluent with chopsticks, my camera, or Japanese, my hands still tremble,...
Date night.
movie theater cashier: do you want butter in the middle of your popcorn, or on the top?
me: um…both? is that even allowed?
you: I married the right woman.
(then you proceeded to brag in a text to your mom about me.)
and I married the right man.
1 tag
As we lay down beside each other each night, we are forever separated by your body’s boiling heat, and my body’s frigid need to be drowning in our blankets. You’ll slip your hand through an open space between the feathered comforter & rest it on the small of my back, while I will slip my icy toes a few inches out of my cocoon, and onto your bare leg. Even the simplest of your...