Status: seeing where this gets the most love. / last big edit: 2/11/13
Prose On Your Tongue
oo1.
the night of a fire
i fell in love by a fire,
struggling and sputtering but pure
as i gasped for breath and for god to spare my hacking heart,
i looked up to the blanket of night and wished for another night like this:
yet all my dreams would come true
Brianna ‘Bee’ is dancing around the raging campfire we set up about an hour ago in her favorite loose jean-shorts - the ones I’ve seen about hundreds of times already. She’s a tall, long-legged girl, so albeit I have no romantic interest in her, whenever I see her sway her hips and gracefully twist her body as she moves, barefoot, across the dirt, I feel a little mesmerized, a little inspired. I feel my tongue clicking some prose while she smiles pleasantly, brushing a jagged lock of asymmetrically-cut chestnut hair from her pointed face before doing another turn on the tips of her dirtying toes. There’s something magical about the blaze of orange, I think just before she does a dip and comes back up when the music softens to an acoustic solo. And the way the girl enchants the crowd with her crippling spell.
I realize I’m not the only one watching when Samuel ‘Sam’’s dark red mouth quivers off until it’s turned downward and parted in complete awe. He’s crouched over on the log adjacent from mine, buff shoulders practically ripping out of his a little too small tee, beer in his large, meaty hands. Our excited, hushed whispers have long faltered, and now there’s nothing but the prancing of Bee’s body around the camp and the belting of a song I don’t recognize from the speakers; there’s a faded, concentrated look on her face, and she suddenly stops, raises her hands above her head, and stretches her body until she looks like a long branch with the backdrop of the night surrounding her. The song is now dying off, and a smile has returned to her brightening face.
“Wow, Bee,” Sam says in his gruff voice, splitting the momentary silence in half. “You’re . . . hot.” Laughter surfaces from the four of us as she finally comes down from the tips of her toes and relaxes her arms by her sides.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says jokingly before settling down back by my side. A short rush of warm air drifts between us while she sits, and I can now see a few beads of sweat trailing from her hairline and towards her sloping jaw. She takes a deep breath while eyes are still on her, even after another song begins, and she turns to look at me, grinning. “What, Dan? Even you want a piece of me?”
I only smile sheepishly before Nes pipes up from the spot next to Sam. “‘Course he does,” he laughs. “You’re somethin’ else, Miss Dancing Star.” She laughs her chirpy little laugh at the compliment, kicking dirt up in his direction. Muttering something about him “shutting the fuck up, too,” she bends over, driving her loose blouse higher up her glistening back, and snatches a beer from the nearby pile.
“It’s been’a long day,” Nes continues, and I finally tear my eyes from Bee to look at him, heart being trapped in my throat. Nes is the type of guy that I find it hard to explain; he has this sharp, angled jaw line, his cheeks dipping very, very slightly to compliment his cheekbones and freckled face, and his physique is broadened and firm from a well-played puberty, but he’s beautiful in the face: this starking dichotomy that makes you have to look twice to really understand it. His mother’s long-lashed green-blues, sloping nose, and painted lips were given to him, while his father covered the rest; I still don’t know whether to envy him or write of him, so I’ve settled to do both.
“Let’s get fuckin’ wasted or somethin’,” his eyes flicker instantly in Sam’s direction, since he’s usually just the guy for that type of stuff, and Sam grins wildly, nodding with this scary glint in his eyes.
“Yes,” Sam grunts in the huskiest way he can, lifting a fist to the star-dotted skies and swiping some sandy blonde bangs from his brown eyes. “Let’s get fuckin’ wasted, man.” There’s some disappointed shouts escaping Bee while Nes and Sam grab at some beer bottles and try to pry them open with their boyish hands. I watch quietly from my log, slowly pulling out my tiny notebook from my back pocket and opening it to a fresh page.
Bee gets up from the log and rushes them, shouting, “not tonight you idiots,” and they’re swiping playfully at her to get her away, but she leaps on Nes’s back anyway and he stands up with her there, flailing and screaming delightfully. I manage to get my notebook on my lap and I fish my equally-tiny pencil out next. The page is blank, but my mind is full - swarming, bursting with words that need to be written.
So I write. And when I’m done - when Nes and Sam and Bee are dancing ‘round the campfire with their beer in hands, minutes away from chugging it all down - I rip the piece of paper out and slip the prose into the pocket of Nes’ backpack.
Things I don’t understand, but will:
- the way you move slowly, purposefully, down the halls when we all know you’re just as we are
- how you manage to smile when life is at its darkest and push the rest of us back to safety
- when you sprint across the lawn with your pants crawling down your legs, threatening to trip you, but you find me anyway and embrace me with that tantalizing “hello”
- the way you press a hand into my back and all i can think: “i love you.”
i fell in love by a fire,
struggling and sputtering but pure
as i gasped for breath and for god to spare my hacking heart,
i looked up to the blanket of night and wished for another night like this:
yet all my dreams would come true
Brianna ‘Bee’ is dancing around the raging campfire we set up about an hour ago in her favorite loose jean-shorts - the ones I’ve seen about hundreds of times already. She’s a tall, long-legged girl, so albeit I have no romantic interest in her, whenever I see her sway her hips and gracefully twist her body as she moves, barefoot, across the dirt, I feel a little mesmerized, a little inspired. I feel my tongue clicking some prose while she smiles pleasantly, brushing a jagged lock of asymmetrically-cut chestnut hair from her pointed face before doing another turn on the tips of her dirtying toes. There’s something magical about the blaze of orange, I think just before she does a dip and comes back up when the music softens to an acoustic solo. And the way the girl enchants the crowd with her crippling spell.
I realize I’m not the only one watching when Samuel ‘Sam’’s dark red mouth quivers off until it’s turned downward and parted in complete awe. He’s crouched over on the log adjacent from mine, buff shoulders practically ripping out of his a little too small tee, beer in his large, meaty hands. Our excited, hushed whispers have long faltered, and now there’s nothing but the prancing of Bee’s body around the camp and the belting of a song I don’t recognize from the speakers; there’s a faded, concentrated look on her face, and she suddenly stops, raises her hands above her head, and stretches her body until she looks like a long branch with the backdrop of the night surrounding her. The song is now dying off, and a smile has returned to her brightening face.
“Wow, Bee,” Sam says in his gruff voice, splitting the momentary silence in half. “You’re . . . hot.” Laughter surfaces from the four of us as she finally comes down from the tips of her toes and relaxes her arms by her sides.
“Shut the fuck up,” she says jokingly before settling down back by my side. A short rush of warm air drifts between us while she sits, and I can now see a few beads of sweat trailing from her hairline and towards her sloping jaw. She takes a deep breath while eyes are still on her, even after another song begins, and she turns to look at me, grinning. “What, Dan? Even you want a piece of me?”
I only smile sheepishly before Nes pipes up from the spot next to Sam. “‘Course he does,” he laughs. “You’re somethin’ else, Miss Dancing Star.” She laughs her chirpy little laugh at the compliment, kicking dirt up in his direction. Muttering something about him “shutting the fuck up, too,” she bends over, driving her loose blouse higher up her glistening back, and snatches a beer from the nearby pile.
“It’s been’a long day,” Nes continues, and I finally tear my eyes from Bee to look at him, heart being trapped in my throat. Nes is the type of guy that I find it hard to explain; he has this sharp, angled jaw line, his cheeks dipping very, very slightly to compliment his cheekbones and freckled face, and his physique is broadened and firm from a well-played puberty, but he’s beautiful in the face: this starking dichotomy that makes you have to look twice to really understand it. His mother’s long-lashed green-blues, sloping nose, and painted lips were given to him, while his father covered the rest; I still don’t know whether to envy him or write of him, so I’ve settled to do both.
“Let’s get fuckin’ wasted or somethin’,” his eyes flicker instantly in Sam’s direction, since he’s usually just the guy for that type of stuff, and Sam grins wildly, nodding with this scary glint in his eyes.
“Yes,” Sam grunts in the huskiest way he can, lifting a fist to the star-dotted skies and swiping some sandy blonde bangs from his brown eyes. “Let’s get fuckin’ wasted, man.” There’s some disappointed shouts escaping Bee while Nes and Sam grab at some beer bottles and try to pry them open with their boyish hands. I watch quietly from my log, slowly pulling out my tiny notebook from my back pocket and opening it to a fresh page.
Bee gets up from the log and rushes them, shouting, “not tonight you idiots,” and they’re swiping playfully at her to get her away, but she leaps on Nes’s back anyway and he stands up with her there, flailing and screaming delightfully. I manage to get my notebook on my lap and I fish my equally-tiny pencil out next. The page is blank, but my mind is full - swarming, bursting with words that need to be written.
So I write. And when I’m done - when Nes and Sam and Bee are dancing ‘round the campfire with their beer in hands, minutes away from chugging it all down - I rip the piece of paper out and slip the prose into the pocket of Nes’ backpack.
Things I don’t understand, but will:
- the way you move slowly, purposefully, down the halls when we all know you’re just as we are
- how you manage to smile when life is at its darkest and push the rest of us back to safety
- when you sprint across the lawn with your pants crawling down your legs, threatening to trip you, but you find me anyway and embrace me with that tantalizing “hello”
- the way you press a hand into my back and all i can think: “i love you.”