twit twat.

http://twitter.com/ClaudeleanMusee

I've moved and for the first time delivered a new approach: a genuine attempt to establish my life; to feel at home. There is so much to say. And a novel I am signed up to write by the end of two months. How heroic. In short, I am on my own; surviving, smiling. And I am in the midst of a new site name. I don't know if I will latch on to it or not. For whatever reason, I'm the type, that supposes a new domain will separate me from the associations of what I did and didn't accomplish here.

Only today.

Since moving, I’ve been snacking on cheese. Jalapeño Jack, Goat, Manchego. Perhaps this is my effort to be that woman living on her own. The one of stories, the one I could never write. To spend money in bulk, on flavors. A first try to regard the body in the manner I think of the person I love. Happy just to have. After showering, I hold a mug and look for someone doing the same thing by an open window. Settling into the morning, clutching night in a fist. We boldly drink our coffee. Pretending we are without routine.

Vertigo.

He said I’m thinking late. A chill out chat or film.


She moves to find, her body is not inseparable.
Surprised? There was a long way to go.
And at least she’s made it, so far.
Her thinking stills to picture something else: a late night or just later.


No one can watch without lying.
He’ll believe I own only one.
He wants to find it a bit beyond the bed’s edge.
He will wait for me to take him up.


Spiral stairs are designed for someone of distinguishable purpose.
They say you are lucky. But I would never offend you like that.
So go on, show me how it looks.
Show me what it is to have my muse wrapping her body around.


He typed Thinking of you. He sent. And he didn’t touch her on any level.
Should it have been late enough, the two may have gone to bed; planning and not planning to watch a film.