This conversation turns me.
The physicality of your voice,
The tangibility of your explanation,
The silkiness of your logic.
I can feel fingers of thought running up and down my spine,
Tentatively playing with the back of my neck,
Lingering at the curve of waist,
And the slope of shoulder.
Words, like lemondrops, tart and sweet and (possibly) alcoholic…
You place each of them carefully on the shelves of our conversations.
You use metaphors deliberately.
Conscious of the shadows these words cast,
Shadows that stretch from decade to decade.
You are telling stories about the past.
I feel drunk,
And I stare into your mouth,
Smiling at the awkward innuendos
And quick, quick, quick dismissals.
You are telling stories about the past, I say.
Are there any other kind? you say.
It is all academic, you say.
Of course, I reply.
We are talking about Important Things,
And you are quick to change the topic.
I think I make you nervous.