About the Sleeping Princess

Belle to J, way back when (oh, those corporeal technicalities, where is any former image I used of a Polish Princess, somnolent American Princess, whatever... have you figured out how incredibly ***airy*** I am). Oh yeah, I meant to write a post today having to do with zoning text that would prevent a girl in the flush of her rosy youth having to deal with the horrible global capitalist assault on a tender first kiss of big red neon letters that read FAG... I think it's why I pursued planning, long run version. Also I sorta kinda remember walking with my mother one day. We had already had the conversation, why does this thing read FAG? My mother said that, in German, they don't realize how offensive that is.

Hitting Send.

Belle to J, 8 July 2008

I remember the back room of your house, the one with the fireplace, sofa, and a wing chair or two. What a cozy room. As evenings spent at your house wore on, your parents would eventually retire to their room, and the exhaling moment would arrive when you and I were finally left to ourselves, in the darkness, lights out, but perhaps some firelight and the last hiss of logs. We would lie together on the worn, narrow sofa in each other's arms and kiss for hours, and sometimes we'd doze off like that. And then it would be the horrible witching hour when we had to rouse ourselves so you could drive me home. I hated those curfews. Thinking of them now brings back that horrible sense of oppression, of having to leave the paradise of your arms. Painful.

I remember the sensation of your kisses...