D. is arrested by the thought that she may actually have feelings for S.
The physical ache, the mental pang, the emotional turmoil, the spiritual confusion interrupt her toilette.
She may pause mid-stroke of a hairbrush, painting of face, or daubing of unguent
D. sits at her vanity, alone,
Starting-and-stopping with her toilette, paused by unexpected and powerful realizations
She finishes, stands, and exits
I like my body when it's with your body.
quite such a new thing, each time, again and again
nerves jumping from prickled skin, enjoining
in the aether
solid as the temple, from your arching limbs
i hang like ripe fruit, ready to pick, steeping
in the feverèd afternoon sun, it seems
I like the confident strength of your body
even as it verges on losing control,
searing my soul, parting with such sweet sorrow
at that moment, present and pre-occupied,
knowing as not ever having known before
the ephemerous eternal me / you / us
I like myself after, free for just that moment
of the surly bonds of corporeality,
of no touch, no sight, no sound, no scent, no taste,
no memory, no knowledge,
no encumbrance of any kind, just being,
so that when my senses return there will be
the surreptitious surprise of you, so new
David E. Matthews lives in New England. He is saddened by the direction of events, but more perplexed that things are not worse than, or better than, they actually are, if what people believe is true. He has become suspicious - not to say paranoid - of people who seem positive of what is real, and true. The reverberations and resonances of literature is all that sustains him.