When I lie in bed in that limbo between sleepy and sleeping I think about throwing open all the windows on a hot summer night (the kind where you can't breathe for the season's breath beating you senseless) and dancing in your arms. We'll both be tired and conservative with our words but our feet will converse into the night. I'm thinking Sidney Bechet's "Blue Horizon" should be a good place to start so you have an idea of where I'm going. I want the heat to press us together until we melt. The end of your body will be the beginning of mine because no one's paying attention to where lines are drawn. If anyone's going to draw them, it'll be me sliding the tip of my finger across your chest in time to the record which is so slow we're almost standing still. We don't notice though, because the only rhythm we care about is us. The way I see it, it's like Tennessee Williams is somewhere up there hacking away at his typewriter creating us with each stroke of the key. His fingers work our literary strings and we sway like marionettes in the hands of our creator. He places the screen door on the other side of the room the ***** walls around us the indifferent lightbulb hanging above our heads, giving off just enough light so we don't have to squint but not enough to make the room feel anything less than sensual. Tennessee draped the sundress over my shoulders but kindly left my feet bare so I could feel the floor in its imperfect softness. He put a watch on your wrist not so you'd keep time but so you'd remember the person who gave it to you. There's a hint of a smile stretched across the divan of your lips though I know Tennessee had not a single thing to do with it. It was all me. And just before I fall asleep, the song finishes and Tennessee packs up his machine, leaving us to ourselves for the rest of the dream before a dream.
stream-of-conscious about my recurring Tennessee Williams-esque daydream and I did have "Blue Horizon" on repeat while I wrote this