It’s like I switched the TV on 25 minutes into the movie, because I only have snapshots. This night you’re not a narrative ready to be blogged, or told, or turned into marketable packages like poems which won’t make any money. But it was you, exactly. And isn’t it, always?
We were on a sofa in someone’s house, watching a kids’ film, a cartoon, one of those in-between, appropriate for anyone things, because sex jokes go over the heads of even some twenty year olds. But we’re not twenty. You most definitely aren’t. And I’m at that announce-able age where if I don’t start having children soon, people will think there’s something wrong with me. And there is, but not that.
I ended up on you, and I say ended up like it’s osmosis, this natural move, not play or awkward moment, but something that happens like when the bus turns a corner and the person next to you starts touching you and it wasn’t purposeful but it happened and you’re sort of okay about it. Well it was like that, but better. Basically, every dream that we’re in, eventually, I’m pressed against you like wallpaper, bubble-less, and you’re quintessentially okay with it also.
Dream me wondered if that black jumper might make an impression on my face. If it did, it wouldn’t be as structurally solid as the indent you’ve made on me, that you’re making, that’s an un-finish-able wool pattern, fun even in the knitting. I crave solidity like a sweater stamp.
My dad walked in when the film was over, and I didn’t jump up like real life might enforce, and no-one was surprised at the situation; Us. And we wondered what next. Didn’t say, but your eyes, eager in direct moments, when everything else was onscreen, asked.
I won’t say the rest. Even under duress, with the right bribe. Because it was imprecise. And an idiot could work out the meaning. Google’s got it on the first try. Comprende? “Maybe triggered by some major change or wish.” Whatever.