***
Glass Marbles

I talk about silly things like that over the phone at 45c/minuite.

Lacoste, Jeans, Clean Underwear.
Brown Bikini, Wet Skin, Dirty Tangas.

Tequila shots and DIY bar-tops,
House pours and self-composed Jazz music, produced by unsure fingers that stumble across stained ivory.

***
This evening, after a long while, and a great long while at that, the boy and I finally got down to contacting each other with an ancient invention called the telephone.
He said Hi, and all of Microsoft’s efforts at taking online conversation to the fifth dimension fell flat. Web-camming and MSN’s pains with smilies? ...Couldn’t live up to the pleasure that hearing his voice brought. (I know, I should get the mic on my cam fixed. Huh.)

I finally got to ask him about the last girl he dated. Apparently he had to tell her to go because he couldn’t feel for her as much as she wanted him to. That was two weeks ago. Then I tried to talk to him about my situation, but it didn’t work out.

“Forget it. You were right. We shouldn’t talk about the other people we’re seeing. I’m comfortable with the fact that we are, but I’m not at ease talking about it. Does it bother you…?”

And he tells me something sweet like how it pains him to imagine I’m actually sleeping with someone else, but goes on to say that he can understand perfectly.

Conversations over the whimsical little fantasies we have for ourselves.
Dogs, a couple of kids (‘I’m sure they’ll be very pretty’), fake fireplaces with sculptures made to look like firewood in them.
Wedding dresses tailored from fig leaves; and he can wear anything he wants. I don't care if it's a Polo T-Shirt and blue jeans.

I don’t normally (if ever) feel this way with people. It’s usually silly to feel this way. All that’s rational in you tells you your stupid to believe in anything like that. But I don’t want to care.

And I’m not really listening to him. I know what he’s saying, but I’m not listening.

His voice feels like glass marbles that roll over all of me.
Over my collarbones, my breasts, into my navel and over the hair crowning my kitty. Over my face, the curve of my neck, the insides of my thighs, massaging my feet as they clink against one another.

I have no idea why we never called each other before. Things were probably different a few months back, compared with now. But I’m glad we held off. Because even after nearly 8 months, his voice still sounds exactly like how I remembered it, and hearing it makes it as if he were really here.

And I laugh, and he laughs, and it’s like we’re playing with the sheets and throwing pillows at each other before we tumble into bed.

He’s gentle, poetic, and secretly romantic (despite the countless number of times I chide him for ruining my fantasies with his skeptical take on romance– Wa-hey buster, I give myself enough of that; don’t want the help with reality-).

He's promised we’d go on a holiday come December.
Well, we’ve managed it this far. With undulating periods of on and offs no doubt, but it’s been managed. I’m sure something will work itself out.

And if it doesn’t, at least it made me feel damn good about everything for awhile.

Real damn good.
It's strange hey. He's all on the otherside of the world, but he can still make me feel better then anyone here possibly can.
Or perhaps it's just the way I am. My imagination's fantastic like that. Capable of turning everything into the most incredibly poetic symphony in my head, my heart and my gut when it so chooses to.

What's so great about a Polo T-Shirt and Blue Jeans anyway.

Oh. Everything.

***
Paper and Clips
Food and Chips
Drinks and Sips
Kisses and Lips

Xoxox