feels like home.

angles and beaming light. color and light cascade down my steep legs and flesh from the skylight above.

these rooms are overflowing with energy.

when i am alone i play with the vibrations of my voice; i throw them this way and that, and bounce them off the ceiling, the tiles, even the door knobs. i tangle myself in the swarm of pitches and tones that rickashay off every surface and i spin. and i spin. and i spin. if you were here, i'd dance circles around you.

i can hear myself breathe here. i lay on my bed, transfixed on the dance that my chest rehearses over again and again. up, down. up, down. i imagine what your breathing sounds like, wherever you are, and try i to mimic so that my chest will rise and fall with yours.

at night i chase my shadows, and listen to the quiet; the quiet that is occasionally interrupted by the beautiful people that i live with.

the first is a fabulously gay man with the most beautiful legs i have ever seen. he is statuesque. i imagine him standing among the greek and roman statues. tall, dark, and contrapposto.

he says things like, "does a cock ring count as an accessory?"

he makes me smile.

the other is the most beautiful thing i have ever laid my eyes on. i am drawn to him. i am painfully observant; i watch him and the way he rinses dishes, reacts to words, and absorbs light.

he makes my heart skip beats.