Someone who hates scrabble.
Someone who sleeps on her back near an open window in winter, her breath rolling like a river into night.
Someone who wants me to wake her in the morning by reading ee cummings' love poems, giving a small candle-flicker of a smile just before opening her eyes.
Someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside.
Someone who has hands fit to hold hurt sparrows and robins.
Someone who threw out all her Alice Cooper records when she found out he loves to golf.
Someone who would swerve a new car into the ditch to avoid a frog crossing the road.
Someone who would tattoo my name on her arm in writing the same colour as her skin, so it would appear slowly from nowhere when she suntanned, people thinking her blood was telling secrets to the world of its own accord.
Someone who learned Spanish to read Marquez, or Lorca, or Neruda.
Someone whose hips whisper their own stories of the serpent and the garden of Eden.
Someone who bites the back of my neck like a leopardess carrying her kitten to safety.
Someone who'll make me wait for her to come out of the shower.
Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she ties down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.
Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.
Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.
Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.
Someone whose tongue, if we're kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.
Someone who practices her signature with her wrong hand, in case of accidents or a sudden arrest.
Someone whose fingernails smell faintly of her hair.
Someone who reminds me of the soft tickle of fog.
Someone who would rush outside in the middle of the night, setting a spider onto the lawn, never admitting it's because she hates rain.
Someone who understands the unforgivable importance of ravens.
Someone who'll flicker into my lips with the ferocity of a dragonfly.
Someone who will open, thick, pungent and vital, like a Mapplethorpe flower.
Someone who has searched for me like a near-sighted woman groping for her glasses, stubbing her toes and swearing in Yiddish.
Someone who would understand why Steve and Dave and Paul and I sat in a bar staring at the mirror behind us for twenty minutes because somebody had asked what would happen if you looked at yourself in a mirror using a pair of binoculars until we had to admit the question was too big for us, and we turned back to the safe optics of the beer bottle.
Someone who would just happen to cut my wrist shortly after reading Ondaatje's "The Time Around Scars."
Someone who'll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class's heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.
Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.
Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.
Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.
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