Set Where I tell You to Set
Over your head feathers started to fall inside the elevator; pillow feathers. The white ones that we all wish would fall on us. The fluffy white ones that have no ground good enough to grace their pendulum-wafting downfall. The fluffy white ones would get caught in your hair and you would brush them out and giggle a little harder than a child would. You would giggle with a woman's passion and grab the sides of my face, slowly moving your fingers and hands to the back of my head to grab my hair. You would raise your right knee up around the back of my thigh and push me with all your weight as hard as you thought you could to the back of the elevator. You thought I had done this for you. I was nothing more than there.
You like to make love to music the same way I like to write to it. You would turn to me and say, "Put on track 4. No baby. Put it on repeat." I would role my eyes because I heard it as many times as I had entered you. You became a record with no b-side. You became a Hemingway novel where the old man never made it back from the sea. He died out there with the fish and consequently the story was never told. I would interlock my fingers into yours and push them over your head and kiss around the baseline of your neck. You would moan, but you would moan to the song, and I would be thinking about what paragraph could follow what I was trying to complete.
There was a child sledding down a hill in back of our house and you looked out at him. I was standing next to you and you grabbed my arm and put your head on my shoulder as if to tell me you were happy and needy at the same time. You leaned up on your tip toes and kissed my neck. I wanted to push you to the ground and run. Instead, I lifted up my right arm and ran my fingers through your thick brown hair. You sighed a little knowing that my gesture meant "No" just as much as your gesture meant, "Please".
And that was that. She had been reading Carl Gustav Jung (She got that far). She tried to convince me of the analytical value of poetry. She failed miserably in the morning. That bright sunny moment where I ate french toast with corn syrup. I'll wash my plate tomorrow. I would always want tomorrow no matter who was there or where they came from. She was wearing nothing but panties. Her small breasts were playing about. Maybe if she had a nice simple book she would have been more attractive to taste, to touch. Her breasts are plain. Her mind is reaching. She is simpler than her recanting. I told her to leave after she so kindly washed all the dishes.
