Drunken Open

Sunday drunk lunches.

Not really drunk, giddy, thick headed, gloriously slow.

I cannot recall the last time I felt this relaxed...in that Sunday sleepy, just had an amazing lunch way. Doors open to the garden, not hot, not cold. Somewhere inbetween, a black dog licks your hand, and you have someone elses photo albums spread over your lap and the lap next to you. Your neighbour sqeezed up to you- on an expansively soft sofa. You wish this Sunday would never end.

I ride my bicycle back to my home. The cat needs feeding, I should drink some water.

I realise I have not written here, or anywhere for that matter, for a long time.

I speak to a man on the phone. I listen to the breeze though an open drawer in my window.

I remember.

Then I wonder, if you remember.
Or you.
Or you.

Or you.

As a sat at the Sunday table, sipping pink wine and smiling along as sing song talk plays the room, I feel like scooping up the blob of leftover creme fraiche from my neighbours plate. We sit on the pew, side by side.

A bowl of dark, cut cherries, eyes me up.
I imagine popping them into the mouths of the Sunday guests, with my fingers. I imagine kissing all the mouths. I want to love.

My God.
How I want to love.

Here now, toes fizz in that too much to drink way, against the carpet. You know? How they tingle...

I end up saying too much. I worry who will read this, catch me out. Tell me I'm strange.
But really
I don't care.

I just want to be today.

These days always end up the same.
I start out in the morning with philosophies on juice diets and fruit fasting.
I end up with a hole in my heart that gushes,
heavy on lemon cake, chocolates, wine and strong coffee.

I feel blessed.
I feel beautiful.

I admit, I long for him to ring the bell, take me down, kiss me

Juice

Fruits.

I have said this before
I say it again

What to do with all the flesh and heat?

Most days, all days, I keep it bundles in a pocket,
an old handkerchief,
washing thats been in the basket for months, waiting patiently
for a delicate wash.

The cashmere calls.

Wash me.

It is my breast
beating.

Now, I cannot keep this lid on longer.

I draw sharp air though the gaps in my bitten teeth.

I'm so young
I keep thinking
I should grow up...but what does that mean.

All the violets and sparks and wet mornings keep my coming back to you.