I think we could
I think you could be part of my cohort, my peer, my pal, my deep emotional friend. I think we could be family, or fuck buddies, or mythical lovers, star-crossed till the end.
I think we could be kin —kissing cousins or sister & brother— & I think we could be husband & wife.
I think I knew you, definitely, in another life.
The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in. from 1984
I want to put my hands in your hair one more time, tracing the shape of your head & bringing it nearer mine. I want to feel your hands in my hair & then everywhere. I yearn for you, mouth, arms, legs, & skin, every micron. It would be enough, I think, to touch fingertips or one thumb. Enough to lie skin-to-skin without moving, to lie together at all. It would be enough to sit again on the sidewalk by the old bank building, sometimes holding hands. It would be enough, just to see you on the street, if you only once turned & looked back at me. Maybe tonight at The Hate —talking heads on the right all white-hot bleat & blare—I’ll come down to the street where you are, come close in the crowd to brush your hand with my hand, your thigh with my thigh. I don’t know why I choose, when each part of you is so equally far & dear; I want to put my hands in your hair.