Aloe

Seth's snout taps the back of my shoulder before he turns with a grin to Austin.  I follow the grin and try not to get stuck on the scruff covered jawline, the curve of earlobe, ear, temple, forehead, depth of hazel blue green eyes, line of nose and --- I turn before I reach his mouth.  Windows.  
The everyday surreal, as it's nearly half past nine and bright lights wiz past while I'm caught in a car that smells faintly of Springtime but mostly of the aloe he rubbed into my skin before we left.  It's not so sticky anymore, twenty out of fifty minutes into the car ride back from Cleveland to Kent.  I'm satisfied with the day, I realize somewhere between that Sheetz and this one which he stops at to get a refrigeratable Starbucks coffee.  I watch him walk into the gas station, I watch him move past the window toward the back of the store, and I watch him turn and walk in the other direction to reach the cashier and purchase of what he told me earlier on this day was disgusting.  I don't say anything when he gets back in the car.  I restrain Seth's excitement for his return.  I hide my appreciation of Austin's form with another glance away.  I've stopped reaching to him to touch his arm with my fingertips and I resist sitting on my hands.  My self, my dog, my bag, Seth's cage, dog food, and silence are removed from the white car after it pulls in and parks in the driveway of the house I'm still "temporarily" occupying.  "I am not in love," begins to be chanted by the stubborn and knowing voice within me.  I wish he'd silence her with a squeeze, a kiss, a hug, or a look that says he knows.  He says goodbye.  I say goodbye.  He closes the screen door, I close the green painted wood door, and he drives away as I lay on the couch I call a bed.  I wait to hear that he's home safely before I close my eyes and sleep.

My Valentine "poem" from 8th grade.

I have a dream that I have a daughter and have not lost the pregnancy weight.  I stare at my reflection on the side of a building and try not to throw up.  I stare at my daughter's strawberry-blonde framed face and try to accept that she's mine.  Surely, she belongs to my sister.  My brother.  Or maybe, since this is a dream and I know that, she's me.  I lose the pregnancy weight just in time for the dream to tell me that my body is the vessel for baby two, and hazel blue eyes of my unclaimed daughter continue to stare back at me.  She doesn't call me mom, but she won't be calling me anything else either.  I wake.

My little sister tells me I'd regret running.  I remind myself I'm not in love.  Amendment: I tell myself I'm not in love.  I wonder how long I'll wish he'd hug me and whisper that it'd be okay if I were.  But, I'm not, right?  No wishing here.  Between you and me, rewriting the myth of Artemis and Orion isn't going so well.  Traditionally, Artemis is tricked into killing Orion and he is reborn amongst the stars.  In my version, Orion is tricked into destroying Artemis so that she can be reborn as something more than innocent.  Austin pointed to the sky last week, "Look how close he is to her tonight."  I couldn't look overlong at the stars and moon, my eyes drifted back to him in awe.

Crows spray painted at Zephyr.

I saw a crow yesterday, and smiled.  That isn't connected to Apollo, but it'd be funny if it were. 
I'm procrastinating the shower that will wash away the aloe I can no longer smell.  He had been so gentle.  I think I closed my eyes and dreamed it.  Perhaps he is destroying her.



Samuel Markus and the Only Ones, "Miles Away."