My fingers are bleeding, I have a paper cut.
I poured some “sealer” on it. Now, it’s as if it never happened.
Sounds like every bad decision I’ve ever made.
These are the turmoils of an office job.
These are the accidents that happen when your job consists of making copies, scanning documents, or looking over files from 1991.
The “feeding station” is empty. We haven’t had cashews for weeks and I’m starving. Not starving, just bored.
I am hoping the day moves fast so that I can get home and hear about my husbands day. His work is much more invigorating.
He’s a handyman, and occasionally he sends me pictures of the strange things he finds throughout his day.
It varies, and most days we leave each other alone.
Being married is a new type of commitment. A new level of mundane and contentment.
The honeymoon is over and real life is here.
Who’s gonna cook dinner?
Who’s gonna pick up the wine?
On rare days, we have sex when he gets home from work. Sex usually happens in the morning. That’s when there’s time, that’s when he’s up, ready, virile and silly.
But sex is a thing left to the ether.
It is not forced.
It is felt.
There is wine sex.
Winter Solstice sex.
Road trip sex.
City view sex.
Post podcast sex.
Heavy conversation sex.
Right before bed sex.
The city listens to our croons, cause we sleep with windows open. We’re just part of the symphony. A wailing of love and release. A constant crucifixion. Little deaths fill our mouths, salty and poignant.
Tremor spells that leave us dead and smiling.
There are also days when our limbs are weak, saturated with the days transactions. Where all we can manage is to lay our hands on the other, like lazy willow trees.
Sleep comes easy then, and dreams come like soft chains around our wrists, angels on our temples.
Our mundane resembles faraway carnivals.
Lights that glow in the dense of our frames.