the two most beautiful words in the english language, henry james wrote, are summer and afternoon. summer afternoon.
somebody flippant, or so i thought, told me once that life is simple. always want what is beautiful. ah, but is is not two.
i want to be with you, beautiful you, now on this beautiful summer afternoon. and yet i tarry in my place, for i want you, all on your own, in your still winter curtained apartment, your radio heaving next to you, as i call the smooth r & b dj and dedicate a luther vandross song to you.
this summer afternoon, i can't wait to be with you in the great lawn of central park and try, in our heat addled minds, to outrun the lazy summer clouds.
and yet, i also want you to stand me up, just nap like a lost bear in your centrally cooled apartment, and dream caveful of beautiful dreams, dreams that when i come later, still cling to you like the sore of your left arm, the one you've been holding out throughout your siesta thinking i was sleeping on it.
