Just West of Palm’s Beach

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Last week I drew a picture in my head, of what I want my man to look like.

Two days ago, he walked through the door.

Southern accent. Slight drawl. Not a country, un-intellectual-sounding one.

Skin like chocolate, in its grandest state.

Beautiful eyes. The brightest smile.

He’s. Just. Ill.

He makes my heart feel warm.

I feel warm.

Warm, when I feel like I’ve been cold for so long.

Thoughts of relocation explore my mind.

I float away in the mist, in the sweet taste of his kiss.

No magic carpets.

Just a supernatural, yet so natural high.

“A good girl” he calls me. It’s too soon to tell?

The sound of butterflies fluttering in their silent flight through ones abdomen.

Not mine though.

His.

It’s odd.

Masculinity.

It is epic.

I feel like I’ve been hit. By that train in that math question we could never get.

Except, this time, it's speeding.

The only breath lost in deep conversation, was to marvel at each other.

In admittance to our indistinguishable lost for words.

The search brings back apartments galore.

This magnetic force between us, draws our eyes together, no matter the distance.

Attentive.

He is.

To every, single, word spoken.

It’s as great as I’ve always imagined it to be.

Though, pissed, is the emotion I feel.

It’s so humid here.

I can’t even breathe.

Conjurations of abandoning my territorial bounds, just to be here.

With you.

Fuck those hundreds of miles of degrees of seperation.

The plausibility of our happiness.

Put simply.

Awaits.

I’m scared.

Mama’s boy. He even goes to church with her.

Resentful of the fact that I’m falling so deep.

I feel like I’m on candid camera.

This dream ends in three days.

Get back to Boston bitch.

Back to life.

Back to reality.

Geesh these apartments look nice.

-The initiation of the internal combatance between my brain & my heart.

***Her words. I just spoke them into existence.

BOMPF*

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