Giddy and Gushing By: Madelyn Miller

Giddy and Gushing- Madelyn Miller

“Mierda!” I exclaimed. My finger graced the barrel of my curling iron. It puffed pink.

I was giddy, I was gushing. No swollen finger would slow my efforts to be pristine.

A subtle knock. “You almost ready?”  he said, as I spritzed with melon water.

I arched myself to reveal a reflection of posture and poise.

After months of ingesting him I still felt the rush in a grand presentation.

In a dress I had never worn, I was giddy, I was gushing.

And what an occasion it was, my suitcase was impossible to close.

Its enormity overwhelming. “We’ll close it when we get back”, he assured

My skin was dewy from my attempts. I was glistening, no need to damper off.

My stilettos resembled stilts. I paid no mind to my numbing feet of periwinkle hue.

I couldn’t feel them anyway. I was gushing, I was giddy.

The curve of his crumpled sleeve dipped into our appetizer.

How endearing I thought. Not pressed, yet exquisitely casual.

His handsome grace was measurable. He never acted out with haste.

And though I was humbled by his existence, I felt that we were a reflection.

During gazes I saw myself in the influx of his brow, or the crevices of his pupil.

What a coincidence I thought, his hazelnut eyes gleam like mine near candlelight.

There was no way we were that hungry; by dessert he had already loosened his belt.

My grumbling digestion was no distraction from the fluttering of my tongue.

Calling our waiter was a feeble attempt. Nothing I said encompassed my sentiment.

We did end up closing my suitcase later that night.

He showered. I was left to myself, scouring his room for a pen and paper.

I was gushing and giddy. But when I pressed the ballpoint to that spiral, I realized.

Our barriers were widening from language to continents. There was a sensation.

My scorn pink finger had begun to sting. There was a surge of panic.

 I closed my eyes tightly. It was nauseating; maybe I was stinging all over.

My scorn finger throbbed as its clammy tip grasped the pen.

While the page remained blank, I heard a twist of metal. The faucet ceased.

He and I lay as his pruned feet entangled my loose, ill-fitting socks. 

My finger stung most when it made contact with the salt of his cheek.

While we were lying, I was giddy. I was gushing.

Also I was sheepish. I left lingering white pages and words unsaid.