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saturday, november 21, 1998, 03:59 drifting slowly into sleep, the wooden beam pressing into my stomach, knees on hard dusty wooden floor, boots bending sideways and backwards and anyway which isn't comfortable at all. but it was comfortable. in that attic. years of dust, gatherings past. my face pressing into her thigh, eyes closed, cheek against warm fabric, her hand slowly tracing lines across the back of my neck, around my ear, through my hair, and back down again. each finger spreading and passing through hair, twisting and gently pulling, releasing and tracing once more. lying there, words being spoken out there, somewhere, i was hardly a captive audience, more focused on the fingers on my head, the elbow of the hand in line with my spine than talk of cemetaries and love. and what were the events to lead me to this place? a meeting at a bell tower, we make our way up to one of the more easily accessible attics on campus where, amidst candles and port we spoke poetry and prose, from cummings to poe and all the rest. and in that space, with the flickering light, the old dry air, the words and the hand in my hair, i completely forgot about the rest of my life. finally.
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