June 2, 2011 § 1 Comment
The day I fell in love with a scientist, the clouds were thin veils of smoke strewn across the sky, which was blue and clear and smelled like detergent. “Cirrus,” she said, while grabbing my hips and leaning close. “This is how you use a microscope.” And when we held hands, I was self-conscious, because maybe she could read my mind, my body? She knew what my pheromones were thinking, and the route my fingers would travel down her spine. The day I kissed a scientist, I lost myself in the universe of her mouth, in all the things she did not yet know, in all the things she never would. I told her she knew nothing about me, but I pulled her close anyway, all dry and warm against the pouring rain of the outside afternoon. In bed, it was always morning, bodies tangled up in knots, like anatomical vines growing into each other; all careful words and tiptoeing around terminology, like a cat and mouse chase between logic and beauty. Our minds ran in different directions, but we both wanted to save the world. And so we laughed some nights, hard and loud, setting fire to all the restaurants we could afford, voices ringing up and down the streets of the city we put up with, the city we learned to love like each other. Like the people we knew we had to become. She had a beautiful smile, like the light of God after rolling open the heavy stones of a cave, and touching her was always, always, like unwrapping a present; did you know that scientists had bar codes in between their thighs? Had hands that shook secretly whenever your lips were so close? Were so good at goodbyes, for the grander scheme of things? But we both wanted to save the world, and good people’s hearts break the hardest.
The day my scientist and I left each other, the world was poetic. The sky was black and white, and I found out that there had always been a great shining lake behind one of the city’s ugliest shopping malls. I thought about how she maybe would have wanted to go, or how maybe she wouldn’t, about how I didn’t know. About how maybe she isn’t the type of girl I’m supposed to write poems for. I still love her.