One year I’ve been in Chicago. There’s only the memory of Chet’s trumpet being mimicked walking down the ally way to the side door I go through to get to our attic apartment. I sleep in the middle of the mattress now so I don’t keep reaching out. Four months and I’m still reaching out. In the morning when I’m still to sleepy to get all the way up but it’s too late for me to stay in much longer, I poke out my toe and slide over the black curtain to look at the snow on the roof next door. The fresh layer of white cotton balls always makes me smile and I recall the moan, “no, c’mon close it,” every morning no matter what time it was, was too early to let the light in.
Now I walk down the alley everyday on my way from work, gym, store, airport and there’s no more music. As hard as I tried to help peal back the curtains and reveal the light inside of me, life, love of all of it, his darkness remained and consumed him and alienated me. Now I don’t have to worry about their being a groove in the bed where his large body lie. But inside that groove was where the warmth was. And Chicago is too cold to go without warmth. The ride from the south to the north was long. When love is waiting 12 hours feels like an eternity. It was 34 degrees in Atlanta and -34 in Chicago. All of my prayers and all of my energy was focused on safe arrival. And when I get there, brought the boxes in. After the guy downstairs left and let us sit quietly in his apartment–ours upstars empty of any furniture except my boxes–my hand crawled into his joggers revealed his dick dripping wet. There was no walking to the bedroom just me naked somehow all of a suddent panting, screaming hands against the wall riding so deeply cumming so hard, three months of pent up desire. My desire committed suicide all over his dick my hands left grooves, my skin prickled my pussy was throbbing and inside, my heart was aching with joy.
Now in the mornings and late at night I look over and there is his face smiling and happy arms around me shoulder. He barely new me then but was smitten. Me too, and next to his face the Divine Savior with a halo above his head and a crown or thorns on top the wick so deep inside the glass it can’t be lit without a stick of incense. Did he become that for me. Why is his face next to the Divine Savior on my night stand? It’s the one image we have of us together so I know it wasn’t all a nightmare. The nighstand he built with his hands, no machines, shaped the wood with primitive tools onto the very altar that I would sleep next to every night and admire those lips that kissed my lips and kissed me other lips in ways that I could only dream. Those lips and that mouth that couldn’t get enough of the taste of my juices.
There’s snow outside and it keeps on snowing. It is supposed to snow for another two days I think. And I’ll wake up tomorrow, if it is the will of god, and slide over the black curtain to look at the fresh layer once again.
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