it’s funny. to fall in love. when you’re not free to do so.
there was this made-up man. he was tall in a short sort of way. with blond hair as black as snow. his deep blue eyes spoke to me in greens, browns, and ambers. he was slender. and chubby. no. wait. it wasn’t imagining how he looked at all, i realize only later. because this guy, the made-up man always smelled good and i always loved to put my nose in the spoon rest of his neck. his voice was resonant with a rhythm for telling jokes and reading stories. he had nice hands and no matter whether we walked down a street, sat together on a sofa, or slept on a bed, we always fit. just the way fred astaire could dance as though there was nothing to defying gravity. the way kids can curl up in a lap, fall asleep and wake up with rosy cheeks, fresh and shiny new. the way anything that just looks easy. that was my made-up man.
he spilled out of me in a small den over several months. i’d lock myself away there after work