On red-headed men

Yes, well the Butterfly is out of town. He's been gone since last week and I miss him. I miss the early morning before the sun has a chance to really rise trysts and the "hey, are you free for dinner?" trysts and the laughing at his retardo jokes and the goofy faces he makes and his acceptance of his role in my life because there is no other one for him and the serious and not-so-serious conversations about anything and everything under the sun and his smile and the way his red hair falls just so in the back over his collar and the "man's man" that he is without being sexist and the way he accepts my choices and the way he patiently waits until I end whatever tirade I'm on and says "is that all you've got?" and how he's exactly what I need and how I need it at this point in my life and the thick line of hair on his stomach that I threaten to braid and how he knows I can't stay mad at him for more than 5 minutes and the switch from igmo to Dom in the blink of an eye and the dutiful way he takes the herbs I prepare for his gout the way he says "I'm sorry" and the hugs he gives me just cuz he knows my life sucks sometimes and there's nothing he can do to make it better except that and kiss my tears away and the very, very dear friend that he is every single day.

And the fact that I will NEVER have to worry about whether or not he has clean underwear.



That's his wife's job.

now playing on my iPod - "Like a Prayer", Madonna