the best way to be ruined

tuesday happenings

I need more nights like this. Freedom is not only for Fridays. Here we are on a Tuesday, lying on a couch that barely fits the both of us. We have enough eggs, toasted meat buns and pancakes to get us going, to make our bellies burst. We stand naked in the sink, soaking our hands in whatever part of us. We are not dirty. We are bones cleaned; dripping in milk and honey. We no longer call it fucking. Undressing is more of like unpacking our baggage because we finally arrived here, our bodies, our hands so homesick. You're thirsty so here's your lemon water, my tongue, and a moan or two. The neighbors are crazy. They called us aggressive youths. But we don't mind. All we care about is the hummingbird tiptoeing along the electric wire. How it looked vaguely hilarious at dawn while we smoke and empty out our jar of weeds. We're floating again. We lost track of gravity and anything earthy. Here we are on a Tuesday and I wish it's an everyday scenario. Your neck. Your hair. Your fingers. Chest and veins and toes. I wish they are my everyday scenario. The pizza guy is taking so long. I bet he cannot find your address. Because we're never here. We're never in this house or in this city. We're always somewhere quiet and easy. There's already too much chaos inside our head. We climb the rooftop and pretend we're bigger. The flickering lights are stars that will soon go to sleep. The traffic will soon go back to being just an empty street and we're free to walk again. Free to become careless. Free to slowdown and stand motionless because nobody will scream "hurry up or fuck off" at us. No more apologies we don't really intend to say. Freedom is how we make it. But each time I'm with you, I smell it all over the place. It haunts you like a ghost. Suddenly my body is a long trail worth exploring. Suddenly, there's so much to see.