Lalo sends me some pix of her and the Andi Bird in our paradise and I miss them and that land so much it hurts. Here in the winter of NYC and the cold of commuting and the rut of routine, I know the sun will rise eventually and warm our chapped skin, my lover's arm reminds me of this imminent ray of hope on the horizon, but I still want to run away to SouthEast Asia every winter and then come back again for the First Warm Night...
Winter is unreality for me in some way. Winter I long to hybernate, and dressing and undressing (two of my favorite pasttimes) lose their flavor and fascination and fun, I am left layering upon layering without the passion and joy of wardrobe and driven by necessity foremost... Ugh. The only joy is fleece and flannel, robes of some futuristic ninja druid, the second skin of cut and torn sock and stocking bits stretched over any exposed flesh, but I had almost rather to have worn my bed, attached with a few bunji chords and on wheels like a woman in a coma.
But one day (we have mused on this before in pillow talk or on the far side of the night) perhaps we will live on a houseboat... an island? And I still keep dreaming of {warm} whatever and wherever that may truly be.
(Photos courtesy of Lalo the Brave & Beautiful.)
