Little Songs

I am a little song maker-upper and without a doubt a little song singer. I remember little songs composed as far back as high school. My deepest, most influential loves have been little song singers too, as love is the true medium of the little song; it generally requiring a light, open, fool-happy heart and an appreciative audience to fall to the ground in hysterics. I do make up little songs out-of-love, or outside the direct presence of love, but generally those songs are to and about myself; darker and less shareable. Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants and I have been singing some of the same little songs for years. Other little songs invented, altered or customized, will forever bring on a fond reminiscence of a once or always beloved. Little songs are always from the best of times, even amidst the worst of times, even the bad relationships can breed little songs full of joy. If I can't remember why I ever put up with that jerk; if I *can* remember them singing a little song, my heart immediately tenderizes with a blushing "awww", and *then* I can remember why I put up with that jerk.

So most likely my wifey in potentia will be a little song creatrix and warbler when found firm in the flesh. A little song about a phone, or a friend, or our favorite shared beverage. A little song about yoga, a little song about peeing. A little song about a trip, or a street, or the time one of us (probably me) was late. A little song to greet the moon, or wake you up, or mock your boss. A little song to bring unstoppable tears of laughter to Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pant's eyes, and encourage him to encourage me to dance the naked hoochie-coo. (And tell you the story about how unhelpful I was at helping him attain employment when we first moved here.) A little song about our bed, our cat (can we have a cat!?) and the kitchen while we cook. I look so forward to finding our little songs together, to teaching you the songs from my past, to telling you all the stories that dangle from the little songs' noses, to kissing you after you humor my storytelling, to one day introducing you to people you already know through their songs and stories.

A little song for you, dear one, made up on the spot:

Wifey Wifey, put down that knifey,
its time for love!
Oh that's what you meant!
I see you're bent!
and that must be
why_I _call_ you_
Wifey! Wifey!
You make my lifey
so very happy
when I feel crappy
you dance and kiss me and say you missed me!
Wifey Wifey, whee whee whee!

My Dream of Waking

When I wake I often have a head full of soft-boiled stories. In my bed there is a space, person-sized, towards my left arm. I like to drool and sputter out my dreams, I like a warm nude haze that listens, I like to hear in between kisses what drama unfurled while we slept. I like my arms full, I like twisted legs, I like my hips rocking to your song. I want to know your stories and your history so your mornings speak to me in layers. I want your hands and ideas of what my brain is up to. I want my sheets to know your name and wear your perfume. I want to introduce you to my stuffed animals. I want a lifetime of wakings, hairs on the pillows, nights counted in vulnerable throats, our skins slowly wrinkling to puzzle better together. Like a baby I want a blurred face for my waking, a slack lip, each bone familiar and murmuring against the light. I want your heartbeat for breakfast, your fears laid out on my shoulders, if you'd let me I'd swallow every tear like a seed. My bed knows you already, it moans for your weight, the blankets tossed and anxious, please tell it your dreams.