two hand hunny

things to write about later:

1 So, it’s morning. Or maybe afternoon. There’s light pouring through the window and it’s got you looking the kind of haloed and soft you only see in movies. I’m only half awake but I’m already writing poetry about your eyelashes, can you believe that?   2 In the mirror, I pretend to watch myself watching myself brushing my teeth. Instead, I watch you run your hands through your hair: again and again and again and again. More than once, I’ve seen the way you try to rearrange your body into negative space. Like one of those optical illusions— the vase with the two faces. You forgot you could be both of them. You forgot that when you lean too close to a work of art the whole picture blurs and disappears.   3 A new painting: one with no negative space. You as steady hands and solid ground. You with a ukulele and a dog. Coffee and cayenne. Cheap wine and expensive whiskey. All that blue in your closet. You as the perfect first date and something soft to come home to. Bad jokes and good intentions and all that— light.   4 Yes, light. Listen, so, it’s late. Or the time of night some people call morning. It’s dark in the car, but you laugh— I mean, really laugh. The kind that catches you by surprise and crinkles up the corners of your eyes—and it’s like a camera flash in a windowless room. It’s the best thing I’ve seen, all day.   5 Every morning, the sun has to relearn how to outshine you. Sometimes even she is not bright enough.