Saturday, August 29, 2009

A different type of softness

You tickle yourself with a fork, metal caressing skin. This is not about eating, it’s about the way your body becomes embodied. Sure, you’re thinking about Buena Vista Park and your mouth but this is about your fingertips. Red when they’re warm, purple when they’re cold and you like both, which isn’t true for the rest of you, your body, but fingers or toes you appreciate when the skin feels like it’s reaching.

Fingertips on toes like a little kid, a little kid and this sky, a different sky, then you rarely looked up except to go inside. When your body wasn’t your body and that’s what you learned. Safety was a joke that someone else created to make you feel unsafe.

Longing: what all skin has in common with skin. Longing to hold. The lights are sparkling waves over hills in the distance and the buildings smooth into each other, more hills, closer. Maybe this is because of sweaty skin, but also because of the breath you might find in your chest, if you can get there, maybe on the way to Buena Vista Park, between the trees and your fingers.

Sweaty toes, even. This isn’t about your sofa, except for the way the light shines off, reflecting you. In bed you will try for a different type of softness, softer than fingertips softer than light softer than hills. For now you think about holding.


nixwilliams said...

love this, mattilda.

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Yay -- thank you, Nix!

Love --