I woke up in a strange man's bed today, wrapped up in gracefully muscled arms, fuschia curls splayed ever so carefully across the crisp white of the pillow where his fingers had stoked them late into the night.
His beautiful mouth curled up at the corners as he crept out from under me, watching me all the way to the door.
And he returned, amidst clunking and crunching and the grating of a guitar case along the floor
to crouch beside me, pin me underneath blankets and pale yellow flannel sheets, whisper "you are amazing" and then begin to sing...
Ever so softly, with perfect pitch and timber...:
"September Seventeen
For a girl I know it's Mother's day
Her son has gone alee
And that's where he will stay
Wind on a weathervane
Tearing blue eyes sailor-mean
As Falstaff sings a sorrowful refrain
For a boy in Fiddler's Green
His tiny knotted heart
Well I guess it never worked too good
The timber tore apart
And the water gorged the wood
You can hear her whisper prayer
For men at masts that always lean
The same wind that moves her hair
Moves her boy through Fiddler's Green
He doesn't know a soul
And there's nowhere that he's really been
But he won't travel long, alo..o..one
No not in Fiddler's Green
Balloons all filled with rain
As children's eyes turn sleepy-mean
And Falstaff sings a sorrowful refrain
For a boy in Fiddler's Green "
and then moved softly through more Tragically Hip songs from his cover band, and then on to new songs, that I'd never heard before...
And my head is pounding from the utter lack of sleep from having his smell surround me, my legs are tired and I know he's in a car somewhere in Ontario with his two daughters, he's gone for the week...
But I can still hear him singing.
And I kissed him deep and long, in my lab last night after everyone had left the office for the holidays, egg nog still on our breath and hands hungrily everywhere...
And I kissed him just the same this morning, and pledged to see him next year.