Well I know that you're gonna cryIt's the kind of cold miserable morning that sees Caleb put on California Dreamin', stereo filling my ears when I'd rather be sleeping.
Tears are running from your eyes
The piece of my life you take
Is one that so often breaks
Stopped into a church
I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees (got down on my knees)
And I pretend to pray (I pretend to pray)
You know the preacher like the cold (preacher like the cold)
He knows I'm gonna stay (knows I'm gonna stay)
You don't like it? He's missed the mark. I prefer the Mamas & the Papas version with the flute over the Beach Boys (or even America's cover and I don't often put anything above that band) with it's cheesy eighties saxophone solos any day.
I frown and he turns it off, returning to the blended-family music of The Blue Stones and Missio. I already made the choice for today. I rarely can be persuaded to switch. This is one of my flaws, to be sure. God help you if you're near me and you want to listen to something different and I'm not in the mood. I can't help it. I'm sorry.
The good part is nobody actually minds, as I have good taste in music and play an exceedingly wide variety while keeping a balance of perfect old familiars.
Old family liars. That's how my brain sees that. My eyes just see Caleb, in his Tom Ford boxer-briefs, cut perfectly from the same cloth as Cole, just more refined. He's sipping coffee. He looks energized. I finished my coffee and refused a second cup. I want to go back to sleep, want to go back down the hall but he won't let me and so instead he paired my phone with his speakers and told me to play something good, but softly so I can still hear him over the music.
He likes to try and prolong the mornings, calling for a slow-waking when the usual one will do. He's very easy to fall asleep with, and stay asleep with. I don't know why that is. Maybe the familiarity (liar). Maybe the fact that he's nicest and most generous right after he's ripped me to pieces with his teeth. Maybe he's no longer hungry and can be civilized. Maybe he's just content for the moment instead of perpetually wound and unsettled.
He and August are, strangely enough, a lot alike in that respect in a way that sees a visible relaxing of their shoulders, their minds and hearts and hands directly after touching me that works in a way that fascinates me. I would never tell Caleb that, however. He likes to pretend he's the only man in the world in perpetuity. Just enough to keep my heart together a little longer, he tells me and it makes my tears threaten, burning my eyes and I have to look away for a moment, thinking about something else while he assumes I'm angry about his words and don't want to hear it anymore.
The truth is that's the fuel that keeps me coming back, thriving on his need for me, living for it as a challenge to shut everything else the fuck up. The only control I have over him (something I always, always wanted) is that I get to decide when I see him. And when he can touch me. And I live for the gratitude and tenderness he shows as a result of that permission.
It's a fucking drug.
( You want new music? Go listen to America. Sister Golden Hair, Rainy Day, Moon Song, Lonely People, etc. It's all fucking spectacular.)