Approximate Contact
There is a period of time, before the first intentional brush of a hand across a cheek or thigh, the first more-than-friendly embrace, the first meeting of lips, that is so completely charged with the electricity of possibility, bouncing back and forth between skin and eyelashes and teeth; the man and the woman draw close enough for the finest hairs on their arms to rise up and touch, then the man or the woman pulls back—this awkward and instinctual dance repeats, again and again, the elastic space between their bodies becoming charged with heat and intention—each instant of approximate contact spreading outward like fingers fanned.
#2
I remember picking up my guitar after learning he liked to play, conspiring with the music teacher to perform a duet at the school recital–sitting side by side on the cold aluminum risers, neither of us singing the words but tracking the chorus and verses in our heads, nodding to each other with every change; it’s the only song I still know by heart: all minor chords and words with no underlying significance; and I still find myself relearning old skills, sometimes even picking up new ones, hoping for the chance to sit beside him again, playing together in practiced unison, our bodies turned just slightly toward each other.
#1
Mentally picturing all of my belongings, I knew I could be completely packed in only a handful of hours if I went about it rationally and with focus; unfortunately, logic often falls to the wayside under such circumstances, clouded by associations and emotions that lay like a sleepy fog overhead, bringing everything to a standstill–I found myself among half-packed boxes and rearranged furniture, frozen in thought, unable to remember what I was meaning to do next; such daydreaming and reminiscing has no place among the boxes; it has to be kept on a shelf in the back of a room, let logic and order run things until the move is complete, then it can be brought down from its hiding place, unpacked in its new home.
