Egress/Regress

right round, baby.

(this is going to be potentially embarrassing, but cryptic, and more for my own sake than anybody else's.)

it's funny how things go in circles. not quite full ones, I've been through quite a bit and some things have changed, progressed, regressed and mutated. but still, the circles are there. this one is here.

excerpts from the past two years:

My stomach hurts when I think about you. You'll smoke and drink and climb on rooftops, but you won't eat meat. You'll let me sleep in your bed, but you won't kiss me goodnight. You say it's over, but you want to save her. You say it hasn't begun, but it's a little late for that. You know you'll make it to my memoirs.

"So if I molested you, you'd love it?" "Yes."

Give me a blanket for the dirt, give me an arm so they won't see me falter, so they won't know. And we can still pretend that no one knows how much I want you.

Letters from a distant lover... Sorry I forgot you for a while. My head's too full, my heart can't keep track, but I'd like it if you wrote me back. Happy to be remembered, I won't admit to lapses, mine or yours, or his. I love you, see you in a year. I hope you recognize my kisses.

Don't make the mistake of thinking I've moved on... Songs of beloved dead men wash through both our ears, but not the same ones.

I'm not going to bother chasing after a hopeless cause. Sure. Lust is cyclic when denied, and the half-eaten bread of my affections still sits, stale on your plate. But you're still at the table, right?

Walk into a familiar living room and suddenly catch sight of a longed-after image. A quick temptation of a hug, a few words and a goodbye. It's hard to believe I kissed those lips.

It's five in the morning. A glass jar of whiskey rests between his feet, what’s left at the bottom sloshing around when he moves. He’s talking, laughing about something I can’t follow. He’s holding my hand, as if it’s second nature. Slipping back into old habits, calling me by old pet names. He won't remember this anyway. I guess I can say what I please. No confessions from the adorable drunkard resting his head on my shoulder. He kisses me on the cheek, not commenting on the tears there. If something exists only in your mind, your memories, is it real?

Drunk in New York City, again.

You cut your foot open in a river and flowed out into the waves. You looked over at me with hurt eyes and I collapsed into a thousand molecules. I am learning the nuances of the jewelry you never take off.

Posted by samantha at July 25, 2005 04:42 PM