Joanna Sondheim

The Fit

The fit of buckles perturbs me, how do you say, the waist hits here, does the leg evolve. She's wiggling near a desk, an indent, flicker and fidget, it is always small words in a conversation that convey the most, it is always how she forms things. I guess she fathoms -- in my mind she brushes her bangs from her eyes and lifts them, when the glasses fall away it's only wanting that remains.

I want to be that for that ­ unscathed in the beginning, when you watch someone they move the way they should, at that point intentional seaways, determined. In moments I think of the intertwining. What it would be like without my body involved ­ how can I love, intimate, I verse her with someone else. In one scenario, under leaves, near a parking lot. Living mineral, she scrapes ice off another's back, I'm watching as I fall asleep. Detailed I imagine her preferred, supine, caressing labels, guitar strings, twisting familiar hair around and yanking. Chipping at splinters the way her fingers might move.

What without fits, grumpiness, sick fumbling. Interest lies in study, unearthed the lady manages boneless with both arms intact. I stampede, watch for implosions. Remember that initially mutuality vibrates. The tincture, eventually exhausted, imparting metal scraps, fitting whispers. I sustain, reject, exhale ­ not too much in odor, slight demarcation ­ nothing new.

Outside of this there's the spit of stories. Meaning, I've replaced parts, engaged in disarray, untruth. Don't entirely - last week, I pushed my head into her arm, reluctant to step away. Nonplused I seal their arms together ­ indulge smoky dancing, the pursuit of slinky. I believe in the sentiment's absence so I believe in the sentiment itself. Only one away and I'm well ­ disarm few conversations, grace a table. Irrelevant when another is running scattered, drip-dressed and perchance, scribbled translucent.

 

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