Words are jamming together in my brain, my dear.

Mondays have come to mean Venice, Culver City, Palms.

Mondays mean quick grocery shopping, darting through the produce section, talking life over sushi, and the inevitable marathoning of whatever show suits our fancy.

Mondays mean quiet touches that I hope are not loaded with more questions than I have answers to give.

Mondays are the start of freedom, the indicator that I have escaped and nothing is going to get me to stop, that the man who tried without intent to break me is only three miles from my office, in a neighborhood I once tried to call mine, a love of sidewalks and Christmas lights, a tiny town trapped in the fifties with a refinery breathing hot fumes onto its feet.

I am a hop, skip, jump, flying leap away from another reality, feet landing in the sand, distance to be measured.

Remembering that day you sailed into empty space, waiting to see how far your legs could take you.

To this moment, no further than now.
Waiting slide into the next.

It's Monday, and my body is recooperating from the weekend, remembering the touches and the laughter, Hollywood Boulevard at night, Frank and Musso's, and how he looked across from me, the landscape of his face. His eyes and smile across hills of pillows.

Other steps, other ways of being.

Dancing in the half-dark as he watches, quiet beams of light cutting the floor with the soles of my shoes, slick hardwood, reflective and too smooth.

Is this now my life?

When I step into the confines of the "normal" world, it becomes an odd and awkward place. Surrounded by children my own age. Looking at gaps in education and experience. Can we have only one or the other?

I wrap my limbs around him, ankles about his waist, arms snaking through the space between forearms and chest, breathing in the scent, stealing his heat, lips and teeth touching and dancing on his shoulder. It feels as though I can never get close enough, never love enough, never touch enough. Frustrations put forth by the boundaries of bodies.

Why can't I sink into his skin?

Mondays are without him, but are with rain and cold nights, and other hands that are blocked from roaming. Bare walls, clean carpet, a sleeping bag encasing my own heat.

Free, but not. Trapped by emotions, again.

Choosing the make and model of my cage, and yet I sing inside it.