4/5/14 // 1:25 am
We’re speeding through the yellow space of a tunnel
And I can see every pore in his doughy, traffic cone complexion.
Our bodies bounce like maracas but we cease to move forward –
Only vibrate softly in streaks of copper. We are all smooshed, sweating.
Shifting so our bodies bleed together in the thick humidity, it’s
Full of magnetic juices lurching us across the damp car seats.
“How do you think of me?” Knees collide over cup holders,
“Cool”, since I only feel you in temperatures hand-dipped, like tobacco.
We touch hands in the dark and – listen – a small bird’s heartbeat.
Everything is bleached yellow, the ends of our eyelashes and pressed torsos,
His arms so toasty, so flushed; I think, he must be a drowsy angel.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, American Note-Books, 1838 (via blue-burn)