I’m sweating more than I have in years. It could be the heat. Or the state of these “united” states. It could be my refusal to air condition my apartment. Selfish for that thick air dissipating before a storm comes rolling in. It could be the deep introspection isolation takes, or self education, or the fights I refuse to step back from. 

I remember having friends I no longer have. 

The light of the hardware store sign across the street just flickered out. Maybe a timer…

I find peace in meditating before bed these days. In personal pleasures. Cold brewed tea. A garden filled with the rewards of my singular labor. Dunking my body into the water trough I asked my mom for, now nestled in my backyard, once used for the since passed horses from the farm. 

Remembering. I remember when I did labor for others. So soft, treading carefully to provide for others, then roughly, forgetful, unsure. Those rewards not nearly as sweet. I’ll tell you that. 

I do miss the easy physical nature with friends now gone. God damn, what I wouldn’t give for soft affection, or even a crushing hug. I miss slightly sloppy kisses on my cheek, or even a rough harsh SMACK on the ass, and arms thrown around my shoulders. Flipping off a close friend with a grin on my face even seems nostalgic these days. Mirrored in my 20s, now seeking depth and sincerity while being devilish in my 30s.  

Intimacy seems to be around the corner on a never ending road. Just ahead. Maybe. Sickly sweet humidity makes me think of the wrestling of making out, roaming hands, exalted breaths from smiling mouths, words off the tongue between me and those caught in my web, me in theirs. Soaking wet, nude dancing in the rain, sharing kisses with a beautiful woman. Drenched after a skinny dipping session filled with me throwing back my head and living as a muse of affection and attraction from the callused hands of men who I’ll never speak to again. My bare shoulders pressed against a building as mouths spoke a wordless language. 

What will intimacy look like on the other side of this. Not a question, as you can see by my punctuation. 

I see wooing, yes, even in my impatience. And that I am. Impatient. I type that with a sly smile on my face. Oh, how to freely touch someone, reverence and slight belonging. Some of you lucky assholes don’t revel in the intimacy of free and safe touch these days, and I’m here to glare at you with my words. Complain not to me, fuckers. 

 I am a greedy mother fucker when it comes to the intimacies given to me, allowed to me, gained by me. I am a greedy mother fucker when it comes to the truth syrup of moments made safe. Safe. A laughable word in this current world. 

This lack of safety, and lack of physical affections makes me daydream of violence. A double edged sword I will not be shamed of. Accept me, my love, for exactly as I am. I live on the edge of fantasies of breaking bones, and sharp edges. 

Take my sweaty, conniving, tempted, argumentative, socially starved ass for what she is. Magnificent, learning, trying, the patron saint of failing. I will kiss your brow, and run my fingers through your hair, only to be pulled away wishing you the best as I’ll never see you again, or maybe just because sleep pulls me from you. 

I am finding with myself, moments given and taken away. I am my own keeper these last few years, a pandemic placing even more “responsibility” on my lap, distracted by my own care, I tend to move from here to there with the best of intention. We’ll see how long I can keep keeping. I have faith, but proof comes in reality I made a way too sour bunch of overnight pickles, and mouth puckered I refuse to give up on them. A talent or a torture? Who’s to decide. 

I lick my fingers after eating medium rare steak, I slice a lemon in half dunk it in sugar, and suck the sweet and bitter nature of it, no mercy, not even for myself. I pluck sun ripe tomatoes from the vines I planted and pop them in my mouth, braless, short shorts in my garden, dreaming of 15 acres and no visible neighbors. 

I dance through this apartment, not another soul stepping foot in residence in 133 days, I watch my 13 year old cat wither away daily, and my 2 year old cat chatter with birds on the other side of the screen window. I weep for the woman my grandmother was when I was 17, and I never knew. I weep for my mother as she gave me every good trait I posses, at the expense of her own path. 

I won’t lie to you. I learned how. I promise, I can lie prettier than most. My bottom lip going soft and shoulders dipping just how you’d like. Reading what you most like to hear. But it means nothing anymore, not my lies. They used to comfort. Not anymore. There’s nothing my half-heartedness will give to you that you couldn’t find on some corner of the internet. I won’t even lie to myself anymore, because she really doesn’t need that. 

I soak my hands in rain water, I leave those begging too much of a me, they’ll never see beyond their needs. 

I look in mirrors and love myself with words, and dance moves. I am training right this very moment for everyday for the rest of my life. 

I love myself with my mess, and my talents. The other side of this will surely not distract me from the true lessons learned this time around. 

I won’t be small, I won’t be quiet. I won’t be what someone demands of me, what someone desires of me because god fuck, damn, how fucking terrible to be a projection of someone else’s half-formed opinions, or their understanding. 

I will be the dark and terrifying thunderstorm rolling in, I am the break in humidity. I am the sweat rolling down your chest. I am the tickled of your hair on your neck. I am the way your ass shakes on a jump and skip. I am the flooded lawn, I am the wasp that sneaks into your open window. I am the corner taken a tad too fast on the backroads. I am the crunch of a garden cucumber un your mouth. I am the perfect piece of ice on your tongue. I am the slippery grilled corn on the cob you’re delighted to eat. I am the flash floods that you watch on the road. I am the movie you watch to fill your soul when it feels empty. I am the sunset after a fucked day. I am foremost these things to myself, and I’d like to maybe someday be those things for you. Or maybe just one or two.