June 27, 2012

wild at heart

I had the fear in me before danger had the mind to impose. I gazed at it through American brushfire, the kind of dry heat that comes before I think about what summer means. It stoked itself upon errant restaurant receipts and movie ticket stubs, leftovers in tin pans. 
We swallowed it whole and kept it down, all the while sitting in the belly of our courtship, a subtle indigestion. It inspires restlessness, though no decisions should be made during this time.  And yet there is no such thing as urban patience.

He threatened only romance but that was daunting enough for me. There is little romance in fear, so reckless love was not even in our vocabulary, let alone in our beds. Our affection was an unattended flame. It could just as easily extinguish itself with time or else burn the place to the ground.
This one was either fire or desert, the vast and broad kind of intensity that has no clear intention but nonetheless could kill you if you let him. He had the kind of reticence that wisped hazy liaisons from thin air. They were muffled with a southern lilt. Silence imbues its own intent, whether it means to or not. Especially the kind that yawns cat-like with its whole self. Waiting. I don't think I cared for any of it but I flickered closely anyway.

I tend to recognize a person who knows how to be be alone. There's a practiced repose about it, that at one point likely suffered several minor anxieties in the margins of public isolation. I know the technique. It is as if they had been waiting their whole lives. Wait long enough and it redefines your faith. Wait even longer and you just become forgetful. I forgot everything about him until four days ago when, suddenly bewitched, I decided I had to have him.
I waited it out, mistrustful. I sat at home, stomaching the heat and the feeling of sly urgency, filled with some consummate balance of earthy lust and heady susceptibility. He was neither disturbed by it nor reluctant. His hands folded in my Godless lap. If I questioned his faith, I doubt he would bat an eye. 
The danger, I realized, is in slaking a misdirected desire-- one that doesn't know its own reflection. The danger is in getting what you think you want. It comes at you with nihilistic ferocity. Before you remember pleasure, you remember performance.

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