“So, yeah. I’m still kinda all dreamy-eyed for you.”
I so love the impractical boys, the creative swimmy ones who say things like this, the ones who float.
I am not like that. Not really at all.
And maybe that’s why I love them so. Their ethereal existence has open spaces in it, and I can slip in, like smoke on a breeze, and find my place in there, in their blood and cells, insinuating my way under their skin, hidden and secret.
It is insidious, often, with the boys who feel me like that. There is something that crackles between us with its own power, independent of us. It is intoxicating and easy to fall under the spell of it, for both of us.
I don’t have to *do* anything for it to work like that, it’s just there, like a tangible thing humming with energy. As if I could pick it up and turn it over and find out where it’s made by reading the label on the bottom.
And if I pitch woo at one of those boys, I can bowl them over with a word, a breath. I can smack them to pieces on the floor with a flick, pick up the shards, tuck them into my pocket, and feel them warm and safe in there. Later I can take the pieces out and painstakingly put them back together with concentrated fascination, with thought and care. Not exactly the same, they are changed by it, slightly different from before.
And maybe they wouldn’t even know what happened.