I didn’t look at him while I sang, even though I’m pretty sure I was singing to him… or about him. I looked at a random stranger. I didn’t look at my husband either, though he was in the room. My husband is definitely not the “worrisome thing” the song was referencing.
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Him: No, go ahead and continue. Just understand that you’re speaking a foreign language to me right now.
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“Did you hear the sounds he was getting out of that bass? Wow!”
...read more here“Don’t talk like that,” he said, “Because you’re going to see me again. I’m going to come out to New York and we’re going to be married. You’ll definitely see me again.”
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[...] I stood near the front of the dancing crowd for lack of a place to sit and looked into his eyes. He greeted me silently with a military salute, which (I had forgotten until just then) was my signature greeting back in high school. He blushed when I responded by blowing him a kiss. [...]
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I cannot touch the keys;
I have nothing left.[...]
He asked me a question about last Sunday. He asked me what was my aim. I told him I hadn’t spoken to my therapist about him yet. He went into a treatise on why a hook-up between the two of us would be a bad idea. I nodded. I think he talks too much…
...read more hereYou’re my little secret and that’s how we should keep it…
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In other news, I’m thinking of writing a song called “Polly’s Sunshine Laugh.” If you can figure out the connection, I’ll give you a prize. No, seriously, I will. Be the first to comment with the correct connection between the top of this post and the bottom of it, and I’ll give you a prize. I’ve got a shutterfly code burning a hole in my inbox.
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I want you to drink me up slowly like a margarita
I want to intoxicate you straight through to
the other side of your opaqueness.
