It has been months/ years/ ages since i wrote. The more time passes, the more pressure seems to invested in the act, as if whatever I commit to the page, having percolated so long, must be Genius in order to justify the drought! Thankfully, this morning, I somehow ignored this paralysing (and idiotic) delusion.
It's soppy twaddle but I am beyond thrilled I wrote it/ wrote something and feel urged to share it :)))) I just hope it's not months/years/ages til I next regain my words. (I wish I hadn’t called it) unwaxing Lyrical: an Ode to an Unfortunate Muse I think it’s funny- sometimes the incidents that remind me of my fondness for you are far from flattering. A case in point: the latest instance. And, as usual, my mind has woken earlier than either of our bodies and I am too sleep-addled (read lazy) to move, with a head too vivid (read anxious) to sleep so I am forced to lie for another half hour or so, intermittently considering your profile and your sleeping shoulders which, such is our proximity, fill my vision. And I’m reminded (it seems) suddenly, of a question that you had asked me. You said ‘Do you want to know a gross thing that I did yesterday?’ and of course, out of a morbid fascination and the unspoken promise that you will reciprocate this acceptance when my body gives rise to something so private and base that I cannot share it readily, and yet I desperately feel need to, I said ‘Yes’ without a pause And you said ‘Yesterday, I cleaned the earwax out of my inner-ear headphones with a fork. They’re still not working, though-must be wedged in-I’m gonna have to buy some more.’ And I fought the impulse to press you on how hot the water was, and how thoroughly you scrubbed the fork, whilst wearing the face of someone not disgusted- again assured you must one day return the favour. And then, in bed, it strikes me how inappropriate was your choice of tool for the job for a fork in this scenario is hampered by its prongs- its forkness. A butter knife would be too wide, but perhaps the handle of one of our cheap but frustratingly little teaspoons? Or better yet, moving out of the cutlery drawer altogether, a small gauge knitting needle? A thick embroidery needle? My miniature screwdriver of Christmas cracker provenance? And I picture an image of you, a giant Neanderthal sort with one hand round the fork and the other clutching the headphones, in vain attempting a task too delicate for your thick fingers. Perhaps your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth. And my smile widens on this moment of fallibility for- though you are usually bright as a sea-licked pebble, far sharper than the end of a too-small tsp. and capable of a tender dexterity- the contrast between this image and my knowledge (and the touching accuracy of both) makes me sure that I love you. But you are still too tired to engage in intelligent conversation and merely groan Neanderthalesque in response to any ventures I make towards morning movements or affection and so I lie back again and contemplate instead what seems to me the most pleasing, visible part of you: the perfect shell of your left ear.
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