sleeping where I want

Really

I think he might love me as much as I love him.

You stood there at my door and I was so happy, indescribably happy, and yet I finally felt the full weight of the sadness that I had been resisting for too long, and I couldn’t help but squeeze you, hard, and cry and cry.

And you held me, but you made me look at you and told me that you were back now, stop being sad.

I laughed through my tears at your simplicity. It’s one of the things I can’t help but love about you.

I think it was then that we felt the nearness of our bodies. And without any appropriate transition or stated intent or anything that people say is normal, my legs were wrapped around your waist and you were kissing me as if it was the last time I would let you.

You carried me into the livingroom (the extra five feet to my bedroom was too far) and our clothes seemed to magically come off. You never stopped touching me and it seemed to me that the sensation of your skin against mine was integral to my sustained existence.

My fingers raking your mass of curls, gripping your strong shoulders, noticing your new freckles among the old ones, the defined shape of your long, gently furry legs entwined in mine—I think it was the best dream sex I’ve ever had.

And you are real.

My stomach is turning inside out at the thought of your return in a week.

Written on the subway, either drunk or hungover.

There’s something empowering about leaving you there in your naked glory. I won’t deny that. Three men stretched out in the livingroom like sleeping lions can lead a girl to think she’s infallible.

I don’t remember what happened in your boyhood bed last night, but I can assure you, whatever it was cannot outweigh the feeling of obscene self-loathing that came over me as I awoke and realized where I was and the state I was in.

Lying there, knowing it had so fundamentally changed in character since I’d seen it last—the simple awareness of her story and all that had transpired—made me hate you, in a way. More, it made me hate myself that I could still end up there.

I felt like every kind of hypocrite imaginable and just needed to be gone, GONE. Back into the self-isolation I deserve and which is better suited to my all-too-apparent extreme weakness.

hurt

It hurts so much when you’re not around. It hurts because you could be giving that grin to someone else, and I would never know. Do you love me enough to save it for me? To save all our little jokes and the things you do that infuriate me, but I laugh anyway, for me and not to let someone else in?

You didn’t once. You said the things that lovers say and you never even heard her voice, or saw the way she moved. Maybe if you had, you would have seen how incomparable the two of us are.

But you thought, “she’ll never know.” and if i were any less than who i am, it would have been true.

maybe you won’t risk it now.

That’s all i have to hold onto.

the moments when it hurts, i can’t hold on, i wonder what you’re doing and with whom and what you’ve already done and if you really feel how i do. so i compensate. and i drown.

when you return, i hope to god i’m still here. i hope to god we still exist. i hope i hope ihopeihope

Never

7.12.08
5AM

We slept in his bed last night. He was exhausted and only going to get three and a half hours of sleep. I wasn’t nearly as tired but I wanted to stay and be near him. It had been a long week, not seeing him and only speaking for 20 minutes each day—on a good day.

I lay there silently as he breathed heavily, in the throes of sleep after only three minutes, with one arm still flung haphazardly around me.

After 30 minutes I was sleepier. I gingerly moved his arm so I could turn on my side and perhaps fall asleep. I thought I had successfully moved without awakening him when he began to murmur something. He turned over and reached out for me. Of course I lay myself across him, my face in the crook of his neck.

As he groggily embraced me, he whispered, “I love you.” Whenever he says this first it throws me, happily, off guard.

After a moment I kissed his neck and began to say, “I love you too,” but he was already mumbling something else.

“You know that, don’t you?”

I’ve never slept so well.

That’s Not It

Sometimes I wonder. I mean, it is my life. It’s the only one I get. Shouldn’t I do what makes me happiest? There are so many things possible in this city. So many things you could never get away with anywhere else. And with this insane technology, even more so. So why not have it all? Why not just go get what I want, everyone else be damned?

Could I marry someone I don’t love and have a love life with someone I do? I probably could. I mean, right now, for instance, the person I love won’t marry me. Not now, not next year, probably not even five years from now. I’m not sure if I can wait that long. I want someone to make a commitment to me. I want some fucking insurance. I want stability.

Ironic, since it means I’d probably be lying to them about giving them the same thing.
But sometimes, like now, I think the façade would be enough. I need resources to build the kind of life I want. And I have no patience. I never have had any fucking patience.

Not to mention focus. I can only ever focus on things that give me a guttural sense of passion. That’s not school. That’s not the inane response papers I write, analogies within research papers that basically amount to pure bullshit, not essays on sociological minutia that just DOESN’T MATTER or literary analysis that is no longer relevant and only a handful of people in the world will ever give a shit about.
That’s not it. Not it. Not it.

But they make me grind through this to get to the passion. And I’m sick of the grind. I got too far behind by doing what I wanted to do. And now I need resources. Fuck me, but I need resources and to get the hell out of this ditch I’ve dug and this passionless, irrelevant zone of pontificating self-important clueless wankjob waste of spacers.

Need out.

But no, I’d tear myself apart every day. There would be nothing left for anyone.

And is that better? Is it?