This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

Dream (I don’t usually go for blonds). 2/9/14. 

We are sitting on my bed and talking, although it’s a bed and a room and an apartment that looks nothing like mine, and somehow I’m not sure if it’s in Chicago or somewhere in the Northeast. We had been sitting there a long time not speaking, and then we had been sitting there a long time speaking. The room was dim and it was late. We thought it was maybe 11:00; we looked and it was two in the morning. You said something about getting a cab, holding your phone sort of vaguely in one hand, the other in your hair, letting it spike up between your fingers all blond and kinetic. You sprawl out across the bed.

Somehow I have gone without moving from sitting up to laying down, my face close to yours. And then our lips are touching, this isn’t even kissing yet, just my lips and yours resting lightly against each other. I can feel how yours are chapped, the winter has only just ended, and you move back and forth ever so slightly. We stay this way a long minute, and then we kiss. There is stubble on your face but your mouth is so, so soft, and your spit tastes like honey and coffee and fresh tobacco and something else I can’t quite place or describe. It is so very good. Your body is all around me and it feels like we are slowly turning into silky water, lapping at each other. 

Then we are in a hallway in my actual Chicago apartment. You are asking me a question, and from a doorway I say yes, my answer is yes, for you everything and always is yes.