doorways in the sand

I wish I didn’t feel so empty.
—  I postured my heart to envelope kisses I couldn’t seal in the back pocket of happiness to write a line of dreams we let dry in the rain. Sometimes I have dreams of kissing the doorways you’ve walked through. Sometimes I keep the sand from your touch to have something fall through my hands at goodnight. Sometimes there isn’t enough left of the bridge to rebuild from, but the stars keep shining because you’re made of wishes I haven’t met yet, and the only thing brighter than the night is your smile. We’ve hid in the clouds for so long, the seasons can’t find the vein we last missed. Every day is a song that pleads with strength I don’t have to hurt. But, I don’t need poetry to tell you your heart is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever held.

I just had the thought of Tony in a Captain America snuggie — one that he got custom made (of course). Just sitting down and relaxing in it, watching Saturday morning cartoons with a huge bowl of ceral in his lap as part of his normal, super secret Saturday morning routine. 

And then Steve coming home from his run an hour early, swinging open the door and Tony just leaping off the couch to try and hide himself, but tripping over the snuggie and just lying there bunched up like an accidental burrito, unable to get up when Steve just sands in the doorway and stares at him confused wondering how odd that sight is – yet how adorable. 

Lobachevsky alone has looked on Beauty bare.
She curves in here, she curves in here. She curves out there.
Her parallel clefts come together to tease
In un-callipygianous-wise;
With fewer than one hundred eighty degrees
Her glorious triangle lies.
Her double-trumpet symmetry Riemann did not court-
His tastes to simpler-curvedness, the buxom Teuton sort!
An ellipse is fine for as far as it goes,
But modesty, away!
If I’m going to see Beauty without her clothes
Give me hyperbolas any old day.
The world is curves, I’ve heard it said,
And straightway in it nothing lies.
This then my wish, before I’m dead:
To look through Lobachevsky’s eyes.
—  Doorways in the Sand by Roger Zelazny