Moving your shoulder blades, hard and immobilized like tectonic plates, until the warmth of my hands gently coaxes the muscles to release you, and then they move with the slow assuredness of the continental drift. You wake me with your arms around me tight and we say the secretive, early morning improvised devotional lover’s song.
“I exist so that when you touch me, I will feel it.”
“You are what love looks like.”
Found the above this morning, via a link from Blogsisters. This is from Margaret Cho‘s journal entry “Love,” which you need to find and read. (Sorry, she doesn’t have permalinks.) Intriguing, thought-provoking stuff. I plan on going back, over time, and reading through the rest of her blog.
Had a really profound blog entry that came to me as I sat in the tub this morning, shaving my legs. It was whole and shining and perfect, gleaming entire in my mind. By the time I was dry and dressed and made up and finally on the computer, with fifteen minutes to write, it was gone. Dead and banal, lifeless on the floor of my mind. *sigh* Such is my life. The muse never comes to stay, she brushes by me occasionally with a murmured apology, but never stays for a conversation. She’s like someone loved from afar: you can watch her interact with other people’s lives, but although longed for, she never becomes a part of yours.