hommes.

he wakes up in the morning, or afternoon rather, engages in the longest-lasting stretch possible; after all, stretching is the most satisfying feeling in the morning. the back of his hand rubs over his forehead a moment before allowing his fingers to rummage through his locks of hair twisted this way and that from sleep. dark hair, probably. he pulls the headphone wires from around his neck and arms, removing himself from the ipod web (the ipod which actually belongs to her, as they swapped them for a week or so). he checks his phone, pleased to find one new text message from her (sent not long after he went to sleep, around four-thirty in the morning), words encrypted and seemingly simple, yet riddled with thick layers of meaning. a modest song lyric, or perhaps a haiku. he responds with one of his own before he sits up in bed, ready to begin the day. his eyes trail slowly over his record collection; which would he choose to wake up to? absently he picks one up, a gift from her coincidentally, places it on the victrola. he pulls the fabric of his clothing around him, grabs something to eat, practices a tune he has been working on for her, takes a break with a book, maybe then works on some other form of art, perhaps writing, perhaps painting, perhaps drawing, perhaps photographing.

later, it's time to see her. he goes to her place, they greet and exchange remarks, sassy and sweet, and he lounges on her couch, serenading her with her guitar while she prepares dinner. he pretends it tastes awful, yet clears the plate. they go for a walk at dusk, roll around in the grass together awhile, and he allows her to take his photograph. they have a tickle war for awhile until they cannot breathe, after which they lay there together, discussing everything imaginable, roadtrips, films, shows, books, play-fighting and constant challenging of one another, whatever. he lets her pick the leaves and grass out of his hair. when a break between topics comes, they walk back to her place hand-in-hand. they then brew some tea, and talk about more serious things, philosophies, politics, anything, and when it gets tiring, they go to her room and he lets her dress him however she chooses. eventually they lay on her bed together, limbs tangled, music playing yet, equally aware of how comfortable the other is. by then it is three hours after midnight, and they fall easily into slumber. each day brings something new and different for the two of them, which is of some consolation, in a sense. they may or may not see one another daily, but the conversation never dries up, nor does the interest.

does he really exist? i wonder if i will ever meet him. i mean, traits like these aren't that hard to come by, are they? oh, stop looking and it will come to you, right? the advice everyone has given you? i'm hardly looking; it's just the waiting that's difficult. of course, if it ever comes i likely won't want it anymore, now will i? or likely i would screw it up somehow. how's that for optimism? cheers!