Jan 1, 2011
When there is no company, I define myself with tights. I wrap my bruises and prickles in triangles and silky stripes, making something sensuous; I pull soft cotton between my thighs and slowly swipe out wrinkles. I sway in front of mirrors, with saxophones serenading me from the machine on my mattress; I smile at my legs. They arc and stretch; they lift me upwards over nonexistent parading heads, and they hunt attention; they do not make a sound.
Without you, I sing to my dog and my nails and my feet. I make Frank Sinatra siphon my world from my eyes; he sings to me strongly and spins me with one light hand. He looks at my legs. My thighs freely flaunt themselves to wine red curtains and plushies from the past. There are no delicate dancers' legs to giggle behind the backs of mine. There are no men to ignore them; there are no men to push them aside and free them of their purple or pink or red or green veils in order to reach the more interesting parts. There is a clean and shining wooden floor without obstacles or distractions. My toes gladly curl; my feet fly and swirl; my fingers caress errant jazz.
You're not here, but it's okay. You will not lift your head and let it fall back on my lovely foam pillow you will not hide your eyes from the sunlight and ignore my luminous legs. Today, it is me. Today, it is music you don't like, books you don't like, poetry you don't feel you do justice to. My heavy feet flutter. I am alone and enthralled; I am lovely and soft and full.