this is what i look like

the gypsy man's self image with the still life of that framed picture of the couple dancing reminded me of the time you took my self-portrait for me. you smiled as i sat beside that stack books and twirled my hair as usual. take off your shirt. what? it will be sexy. but are self images supposed to be sexy? they can be if you think you are!
Well, I don't think I am.

then you found what you were looking for--a real solution to the problem; my mole above my left breast. You said look darling it breathes like you do. it smiles and cries. it's a dot of life. it contains so much. it tells me so much about you.
I touched the part you were talking about. I didn't feel it. It didn't feel like anything.
It felt like skin where skin was supposed to be. there was nothing secret or magical about it. listen. you said. listen to me.
you put your ear on the dot and listened as if you were a lifeguard and my spot a heart that might stop at anytime from inhaling water or from loving too much.

please stop trying to convince me that it will not be alright; you say, as you kiss my spot. I didn't feel them--your kisses.
I held them apart. The spot was not a part of my body; it was a part of a different constellation. It belonged to the sky, to the big dipper to the comets, to the dancing clouds.

why do you kiss me so softly, here? I point to the spot. I hate it. I HATE IT. You kiss my hand. I feel it. It's bold and wanting. you leave me wanting more kisses. I love your mole; it's wise.
WISE? Is wise sexy?
yes, darling. yes, oh... you don't know why? You smiled at me and I couldn't help but feeling like i missed the punch line.
I couldn't help but notice how you still probably bit your nails even after you promised me--over wine no less-- that you would stop.I acted like a scientist by using my deductive reasoning; my abilities to use logic like a =b only if b=a were well up to par and were in fact brilliant.. This made sense to me. I thought about work and history. How do we learn things about each other? An Archeologist would examine teeth and bones to identify the cause of death and the purpose of life, of a civilization's promise and of its downfall-- it's ancient lifestyle. All lovers are archeologists. They dig through the dirt and memorize the indentation of bone and the peaks of the teeth.
Your black nail polish left little black chips on your teeth. I notice this when you smile. Oh, that smile that changed my life.
the first time I saw you; you had smiled so giving and bright.
I see you, holding the camera. the tripod sits empty. you'd rather hold your tool. because it is more personal this way. more loving more feeling more blah, blah, blah, blah.
I feel like houdini and I am performing the chinese water torture and I can't find the key. The audience believes that I am magic but I know the truth; I am a joke. I am funny ha ha.
I say all that I can think to say. I say:
I don't know why! Just take the picture. I am still sitting by the book stack in between your first love Nabokov's "LOLITA" and collections by your favorite poets: Lorca and Neruda.

Take the picture. I think Take the picture so you can capture my soul and then I'll be yours like the couple in the picture.
I'll be yours forever. Start counting, you say. I start counting "one locomotive, two locomotive, three" Then finally, I see it. it's what i've been waiting for and five locomotive and FLASH!