It is the month I love the most, and the month that causes me the most trouble.
Correction: It is the month I cause the most trouble in.
Which is not to say I start shit or start slamming myself atop cop cars, it is simply a question of mischief. Spray paint and heels, Converse and hoodies. I've been doing simple stencils and painting art to be shared in the city.
There is the smell of campfire and sex mixed with crisp air, and I am in love.
It is, indeed, my favorite month.
A list of my pleasures as of late would include: The tall, red candles in my bedroom, lipstick, continuing the indulgence of cheap detective novels, using crayons instead of highlighters and enjoying their waxy smell and comforting colors, the feeling of being Harriet the Spy, the smell of cigarettes and sweat of the person I want, being a gentleman, wearing the smell of the forest upon my neck, not being a gentleman.
Today someone offered me the quote of the month by saying, "Every time I talk to you I end up wanting to listen to sexy music."
I take it as a compliment, and an hilarious one at that.
Everything is exactly where it needs to be,
all but a selfish wish to have a particular well-dressed school girl*
living just a tad bit closer in proximity
so that we might smoke cigarettes (I'd fake)
wearing thick berried lipstick
and trade thick, knitted leg wear.
-k.
(*= And by "school girl", here, I of course mean "well tuxedo'ed lad of many trades".)
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