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*As in "Welcome to" and where "Gator Country"
means "Los Angeles"
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Gator Country: the force of honesty
I had a dream that you and I were in Mexico. Some place no one knows either of us, where no one speaks our language. Just you and I and the English that we silently speak, when the moon streaks the ocean silver, sand between our toes, saltwater hands I can run across your mouth in breathless adoration.
I never made it to my bed last night. Last thing I remember, I was laying on the sofa, toes crushing cushions and pillows, wondering about the meaning of what we're doing, and of what we've said to each other. Caught up in the amber of being in love to the point of exhaustion, when night takes me, I dream of you, waiting until the day I can wake up next to my dream: you. Sleepwalking through my days.
It's so obvious: this body needs your body. Nothing else seems real, except the heady scent of roses and their heartbreaking colors, or the last breaking sigh-release of the ocean's wave at the shore. I am like that wave, imperceptible at the surface, fathoms down, and marking my time with each long undulation across the miles until the day I crash into you.
Somewhere along the way, something profound happened in the middle of my workaday life. And now here I am, my entire soul smeared by Possession: your fingerprints, your name. I'm a self-sacrificing victim at your altar. Sifting through images of my blissfully wasted youth, I see the champagne cork I carried for weeks in my pocket, I read again a phrase you turned. For us, we fell in love then began seducing each other. Who knew that it could be so effortless, returning from the undiscovered country and shaking off this mortal coil? Soon, I'll write "I quit" in lipstick on this office door and never look back. I've already written it everywhere else. And that's how I like it.
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