Old Man, take a look at my life, I'm a lot like you...
I bet God's lonely.
Seriously.
So I'm sprawled out like the Queen of Sheba on the couch, reading Drive Like Hell at 22:45. I'm dressed for bed, because this is where I'm sleeping tonight. Comfy jammies and no underwear to pinch in the night. In my mind, I'm in with the guys, hip deep in Chevelles and red clay race tracks and pot-dealing and staying clean for the express purpose of pissing off local law enforcement. In my head, it's mangy dogs, cheap cigarrettes, and the greasy streak on the back of a guy's shirt where he's been hit in the kidneys with a wrench.
Much as it makes me twitch to realise it, I'm home.
The urge to slide a hand up and cup one breast is quiet; I'm doing it before I realise it. But it's comfortable, and who's to tell me not to? So there's the weight of me in my palm, heavy and soft and warm. Nipple just starting to crinkle and tighten. That's a beautiful thing, there. If you look/feel right, you can feel motherhood in there, even though they never nursed my little one. There's summer in those breasts, all green leaves and bad ideas. Calloused hands and beard burn, being nestled into like a mother while being leered at like a lover and admired like a God-wrought piece of art.
Stale smoke, woodsy sweat, and the inside of a white S-10 pickup. And the greenest eyes all vulnerable as he bemoans what a hurt I could put on him if I wanted...But then he holds me at arm's length like an angel he's afraid to soil...
I miss being approached like something cherished. All my curves attended to with the singleminded focus a mechanic--a good mechanic--gives to his machine. Not like the wrathful ocean ready to drown a man for one false move. Not as a lump of clay wanting forceful hands to shape her.
I want to be stroked like a length of rope being checked for burrs or weaknesses, like I'm a beloved extension of the man touching me.
Just for a little while, I want to be tangled in limbs and thoughts and affection and acceptance, in knots so natural and so arcane that I don't know where I end and he begins, and I don't care.
I want to be cupped and held and fallen asleep on.
With that kind of easiness, sex could follow or not, and be alright.
And the thought comes: What if that's the familiarity the Divine wants with us? All this time we've been addressing Him in Latin and High English, and annointing things and setting things apart so they stay pure...
What if all He really wants is to be snuggled up to and held?
Not feared. Not revered. "I'm averting mine eyes, oh Lord." Not petitioned for a thousand things.
Just appreciated. And held. And treated like Pack.
?
I can only imagine how You must feel, Sweetheart.
...how much more woud I be willing to do for someone who loved me and wasn't always tugging on my sleeve, hitting me up for stupid shit that in the long run, they don't need?
It's bedtime.
You comin'?
Seriously.
So I'm sprawled out like the Queen of Sheba on the couch, reading Drive Like Hell at 22:45. I'm dressed for bed, because this is where I'm sleeping tonight. Comfy jammies and no underwear to pinch in the night. In my mind, I'm in with the guys, hip deep in Chevelles and red clay race tracks and pot-dealing and staying clean for the express purpose of pissing off local law enforcement. In my head, it's mangy dogs, cheap cigarrettes, and the greasy streak on the back of a guy's shirt where he's been hit in the kidneys with a wrench.
Much as it makes me twitch to realise it, I'm home.
The urge to slide a hand up and cup one breast is quiet; I'm doing it before I realise it. But it's comfortable, and who's to tell me not to? So there's the weight of me in my palm, heavy and soft and warm. Nipple just starting to crinkle and tighten. That's a beautiful thing, there. If you look/feel right, you can feel motherhood in there, even though they never nursed my little one. There's summer in those breasts, all green leaves and bad ideas. Calloused hands and beard burn, being nestled into like a mother while being leered at like a lover and admired like a God-wrought piece of art.
Stale smoke, woodsy sweat, and the inside of a white S-10 pickup. And the greenest eyes all vulnerable as he bemoans what a hurt I could put on him if I wanted...But then he holds me at arm's length like an angel he's afraid to soil...
I miss being approached like something cherished. All my curves attended to with the singleminded focus a mechanic--a good mechanic--gives to his machine. Not like the wrathful ocean ready to drown a man for one false move. Not as a lump of clay wanting forceful hands to shape her.
I want to be stroked like a length of rope being checked for burrs or weaknesses, like I'm a beloved extension of the man touching me.
Just for a little while, I want to be tangled in limbs and thoughts and affection and acceptance, in knots so natural and so arcane that I don't know where I end and he begins, and I don't care.
I want to be cupped and held and fallen asleep on.
With that kind of easiness, sex could follow or not, and be alright.
And the thought comes: What if that's the familiarity the Divine wants with us? All this time we've been addressing Him in Latin and High English, and annointing things and setting things apart so they stay pure...
What if all He really wants is to be snuggled up to and held?
Not feared. Not revered. "I'm averting mine eyes, oh Lord." Not petitioned for a thousand things.
Just appreciated. And held. And treated like Pack.
?
... ... ...
It's lonely down here.I can only imagine how You must feel, Sweetheart.
...how much more woud I be willing to do for someone who loved me and wasn't always tugging on my sleeve, hitting me up for stupid shit that in the long run, they don't need?
It's bedtime.
You comin'?
posted by ~*Luca at 9:30 PM
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