hypnosis: noun: an altered state of consciousness characterized by heightened suggestibility
Soft; evanescent; comfort. There was a peeling poster above her bed that read, There’s a moon on the river, and I can’t stay clean tonight. I wanted to ask her about it but never did. It was almost too obvious, the asking. It wouldn’t feel right.
We moved together; we were motionless together. “I could just soak this all up,” she would say breathlessly, motioning to her bedroom and to me and to our bodies intertwined. I was the delicate one for once. I was in awe of everything, a reverence, almost a regret. I could soak it all up, too. I hoped I’d never forget it.
We would walk, sometimes, and she’d tell me stories. I told her to tell me a story about a moon on the river, but she simply laughed. I could have captured that laugh, replayed it a million times, woven it into each fabric I touched and still come up empty. I was kidding myself. I was lovestruck.
I hated drinking and modern art and touch, back then. She was worlds away. I could have taken a snapshot of every face she made and still be left clueless. She was raw; I knew that much. She danced and spun and kicked and loved and sang and stayed grounded the whole time.
Years later, I would be in a dingy bar in Cincinnati sipping a beer and longing for touch, when the greasy-haired teenager behind the microphone would sing, “There’s a moon on the river, and I can’t stay clean tonight.” I was transported. I was in the flesh, in her bedroom, watching our bodies connect, feeling that self-awareness, like being on the tip of something. I could imagine snipping the ribbon on a balloon and watching her float up into the atmosphere, free. Hopefully, she’d reach down and grab my hand, take me with her.
Soft; evanescent; comfort. There was a peeling poster above her bed that read, There’s a moon on the river, and I can’t stay clean tonight. I wanted to ask her about it but never did. It was almost too obvious, the asking. It wouldn’t feel right.
We moved together; we were motionless together. “I could just soak this all up,” she would say breathlessly, motioning to her bedroom and to me and to our bodies intertwined. I was the delicate one for once. I was in awe of everything, a reverence, almost a regret. I could soak it all up, too. I hoped I’d never forget it.
We would walk, sometimes, and she’d tell me stories. I told her to tell me a story about a moon on the river, but she simply laughed. I could have captured that laugh, replayed it a million times, woven it into each fabric I touched and still come up empty. I was kidding myself. I was lovestruck.
I hated drinking and modern art and touch, back then. She was worlds away. I could have taken a snapshot of every face she made and still be left clueless. She was raw; I knew that much. She danced and spun and kicked and loved and sang and stayed grounded the whole time.
Years later, I would be in a dingy bar in Cincinnati sipping a beer and longing for touch, when the greasy-haired teenager behind the microphone would sing, “There’s a moon on the river, and I can’t stay clean tonight.” I was transported. I was in the flesh, in her bedroom, watching our bodies connect, feeling that self-awareness, like being on the tip of something. I could imagine snipping the ribbon on a balloon and watching her float up into the atmosphere, free. Hopefully, she’d reach down and grab my hand, take me with her.
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