Archive for August, 2008


Posted in bruce wayne, cusak with tags , on Sun, 31 Aug, 2008 :: 243/35 :: 22:42:56 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

It’s such a huge word, forever, that it scares me when they use it. And yet they do, and I’m drawn into it, picturing myself, happy. Settled. 2.5 kids. A pet. A house behind a fence, even if it’s not white picket.

Sometimes I wonder how the whole of me can fit into that box. How do you squish the kinky sex, the hyper-literate, the intelligent, the huge heart of me…into a woman with a house and kids? How will I reconcile two husbands with the life I live outside? How will I decide who goes to work things, how will I know how to label myself?

The world is not set up for people like me. People with a Cusak and a Wayne. People who know that they love bigger than the world is used to.

But as (t)he(y) is(are) fond of saying, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.



Posted in cusak with tags , on Mon, 11 Aug, 2008 :: 223/33 :: 03:03:59 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I wake to the sound of the rain on the roof, and the water falling in the shower. They mingle, subtly, in my brain, water everywhere. It’s hard, impossible almost, not to imagine him standing in it.

I wrap my arms around his pillow, clinging to that last fifteen minutes of sleep. Fifteen minutes which have already eluded me. Instead I inhale, wanting to wrap myself up in the faint scent still clinging to the cotton of the pillowcase and take it with me for the day.

We sit, downstairs, waiting to have to leave, stealing little looks at each other and banking them for the day ahead. He presses his lips to mine, warm and soft, and I close my eyes.

Every morning should be this beautiful.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Sat, 02 Aug, 2008 :: 214/31 :: 10:38:31 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

He asks me what I love about him, and I catch my breath, trying to put it into words. His smile, his eyes, the way the sun slants across his skin. His freckles. The golden gleam to his look when he glances up to see me staring.

The way his voice rises and falls, lulling me into its somnolent ocean.

The smell of his skin, the taste of his breath, the fullness of his lips.

His anger, just under the surface like a Halloween bonfire. The protection he offers me, even from myself and the hateful things inside me. The comfort of his hand in the small of my back. The way he makes it safe to tell him anything.

The way he makes it safe to love.

How do I catch him in a word, in a list, in a note? How do I pin the soul of a man to a piece of paper, and make it sensible?