hullo stranger

what a month can bring, a month older and and far less wiser, or wiser but less sage, or more sage and more besotted, reluctantly so, with a bit of new york in june under my belt, all glistening asphalt and barneys and rose and fernet in the heat, isn't it all about not falling down and then getting back up, about new york in june and rufus wainright at carnegie hall and forsaking capitalization and grammer in the name of getting something said, even if that thing is inadvertentaly offending gracious celebrities, a gaggle of homos and a canadian journalist, all in the name of a cold martini and a red dress.

it's all about waxing lyrical in hotel rooms, and the prickle of a/c in the nearing thick of summer in a foreign city, we three in our under pants, vodka and music, and that voltage of a strange city seeping through the well appointed carpet, falling in, falling into, not falling down.

it's all about the salt on my skin, and the tea roses at our new hidden tennis court, it's about sock lines and skirt lines and the summer we never had just across the bay, it's all about wading to my knees in the pool with the dogs keeling at the hem of my skirt.

it's all about him, about the windows thrown open to the birds and the indigents, and the sweet hunger of a week of absence, but I love him so, but I want him so. we curl toward one another, and I hold tight until I cannot bear the very heat I radiate.

so it's summertime elsewhere, but it's juneary here, the fog is straiffing the window sashes, rolling down the street, leeching the salt from my summer warmed skin, sending curlicues of possiblity deep into the night. he is the softness of my sheets, we fall asleep hand in hand.