‘Say it again love’ a dozen times a day isn’t the best way of saying I love you.
But that seems to be our way over here. A streetcar named comfort.
So this is our eighth time going away, and I’m wishing I’m the long prawn you’re eating just so I can see how you really work inside. In the morning, they get up early and walk in the warm mist, crickets still going and the beetles scurrying off to a soft long underworld of shrubs, back off to their damp comfort, their way over here. Back at home, we use weed killer, my bottle being six years old by now. And our weather is too cold for the insects to thrive.
Still, I let the bed bugs bite me last night, contrary to your late night advice. I thought, if you don’t want my flesh, let them! I punished myself to prove a point. Impressed nobody. I think I do it for the comfort when we make up.
Anyway, I just think this natural beauty is making me look at things in a different light. Even the older woman, ours caked in make-up like an old decaying door with layer after layer of peeling paint, used and used and used. And the more modest look of pride on the face of the boy child wearing a football shirt, not always guaranteed to annoy. The old woman smiles in some kind of secret knowledge. Not a scowl. I know we still choose to live at home. I just need reminding of the difference, love. That’s my streetcar. And it never abuses these streets.