Time and Space

I can make myself believe anything.

After a funeral in the basement of a church or hall, paper plate in hand, I pass the coleslaw and potato salad, fully aware of the semi-attractive woman I have yet to meet, and she asks, “are those cold cuts?”

Somehow I hear, “I want to meet you in the bathroom, have sex, run out the side door, steal a Lexus, drive to Pennsylvania, get married, live in the woods, chop wood, churn butter, start fire, clean floor, hang curtains, read Proust, welcome moon, hear Dylan, Bob and Thom, live free, smell truth, eat sun, breath stars, stay lost.”

Where in cold cuts do YOU not hear that?

It is quite clear.

I can make myself believe we were destined to cross paths, ordained to intertwine, predetermined to turn into werewolves, meant to roam villages, feed on fresh kill, fated to eat each other, surrendering to the inescapable, doomed eternity. What fun!

There was no surprise after our hands touched what happened. After our intentions were said aloud, once our fears were acknowledged…we simply didn’t care, we plainly had no help, no restraint, we were without all control; we were in for a horrible adventure. Yet, somehow we held onto the hope that a fairy tale might take root; we’d be carried on wings of love to a hushed safe place.
“Fuck everything and fuck everybody, “ she said.

Ahhh, truer words of love and hope were never spoken more eloquently.

It was as if we had known each other our entire lives. It was as if our desire had nothing to do with it. It was as if time coerced space to help collide these circling spirits. Independent entities now made one.

Romantic, real, endlessly exponential; THIS must be love.

Feh…Smells like teen sex to me.