this antidote: asian noodles and the revision of love letters
There's a storm about to crack open the sky. A proper one filled with the loud growling roar of thunder; disjointed bright flashes of light. Heavy warm storms remind me of coming home. Of making love. The bedroom window thrown open. Hair still wet from running the short distance from the car into the apartment. Rain pounding on the window like slow steady taps. Fingers against a spine. The tension of our love like the pressure of a word still caught in my throat. Necessary and inaudible.
Under this expansively graying sky, I want to hide with you under the blankets of our bed. Feel the weight of your hand against the side of my face. Your hot breath in my eyes. I want to tell stories that we've forgotten to tell. About how my grandfather always smelled of sawdust and tobacco and how he used to hold me on his lap, sometimes, the way you do. Watching television, with his arms wrapped around me for some protection I hadn't yet imagined needing. I'd trace the outlines of the veins running along the spotted backsides of his hands. Realizing I'd never seen him this affectionate with anyone else. Knowing these moments in the chair when we didn't talk--but he'd occasionally squeeze me tighter and I could feel the burn against my check from his rough unshaven jaw--might have been the best most intimate moments of my life.
I think about you. Today. Sitting in some café or another in some glorious ancient place. Whilst I'm here dreaming about the sour smells of childhood--frozen thawing fish and the salty acrid overripe scent of kimchee--and wishing I were there with you. Drinking hot strong coffee and stealing glances at each other over the corners of books.