My Prickly LegsI haven't shaved my prickly legs in a week, and I smell like moldy tacos, but he still can't sleep without me.
Sunlight smiles through the missing plastic blinders on our window. The explosion of Sunday morning through my eyelids shakes me up, and I stretch below the blanket, basking in the warmth of his clingy skin. My hair is sprawled on his face, and he crunches his nose when I brush it away. I giggle. He is beautiful.
I stare as his eyebrows twitch in some unnamed dream and he clings tighter to my waist, as if I would ever want to leave this sinful bliss and the stench of morning-after lust. His body is unsculpted, and soft; a neckbeard springs closely below his chin and tickles my cheek where it fits so perfectly. I start to tear up the longer I look at him, but then I notice that I haven't blinked in 3 minutes.
The apartment is a mess- a cozy studio sprinkled with the laundry we can't afford to wash, surrounding the bed like a moat of sweaty poverty. But all I smell is him, and h
sometimes I disappear from the world, I go on book binges and speak in one word answers and noises. I avoid social events, and talk to friends via text. That's the only time I touch my phone. I'm not depressed or sad. I am not unhappy at all. I just really enjoy being quiet and alone. I listen to birds chatter, cradle my dog in my lap. I think of how short her life span is, and try to burn her features into my memory. I know even as I count the tiny freckles on her snout I'll forget the number by tomorrow.
I sit in my kitchen and stare out the glass doors to the barren trees. Trying to remember the last time I went quiet (that is what my family calls it) I sat in the grass and ran my fingers through it. It felt like hair and smelled sweet and slightly moldy. I went to a cemetery and took pictures and thought of nothing but how the sun shined.
Eventually I recharge and come back, I always feel better. I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's a form of meditation, or a result of being the only child of a single father.
I just know I spent a lot of time alone growing up, and it feels comfortable. Like old pajamas. I get tired of talking, I feel myself losing interest in keeping track of the conversation, and my brain goes on stand by. While I drift off to think of nothing and everything, Listening to quiet.