Take the first song you hear and make yourself at home, all that languid hope lost on strings and rhythmic vibrations. Pretend you live in a place that is both old and saturated with sunlight. The kind of place where lemon trees grow in the front gardens of old ladies who dress in black and wear head scarves. They bicker like all the other old ladies in the world, except they have lemon trees in their gardens and their feet know the arch and angle of every cobble on their street.
This afternoon as I was walking home my head was caught in a cloud of scent. Lilacs, as if suddenly I was about to crash into a mountain of them, pollen raining down and staining my skin and clothes. But when I looked I saw only a small plant inside a grocery bag which was being carried by the woman in front of me. I thought: I want to be as bold as that plant, issuing such an exuberant pulse into the world that doesn’t expect it.
Think of kissing strangers just as they are on the brink of a decision, then stepping back and watching everything they have ever been slip from their expressions. They can’t remember where they are, who they have been, what they were thinking. They can only feel the breath that has left their lungs and the ghost of your lips on theirs. Leave them before they find their way back to themselves. Store up those strange, blissful manifestations. Know that periodically throughout their lives, they will remember that moment as if it were some porthole to themselves that they haven’t found since.
I can’t remember the last time I was barefoot outside. I think it has been cold forever, even though the sun blazed into my eyes as I walked down Princes Street and resisted crossing and going into the bookstore. Even though there are tiny flowers poking up through the grass in the park and the teenage boys are starting to venture out in t-shirts, their hands dug deep into their pockets as they pull their shoulders forward and attempt to create warmth inside the curves of their chests.
No, I can’t stop thinking about a land of olives and sundried tomatoes and fruit that squishes juice almost as soon as you touch it. Somewhere you can still feel the warmth in the stones of the buildings all the way until the evening, until eventually the night pulls the last of it out like the final little shudder after an orgasm. The one that makes your whole body relax and sends you off to sleep.
People keep telling me spring is coming. But it isn’t enough. I need to be filled with the sun, bathed in it, turned over in it until not one inch of my skin remains cool to the touch. I want to be like the Lilac, like the stones in the evening. A giant pulse, a little shudder. Bliss.
Twilight Scrawls by Kirstin Maguire
3 hours ago