(This is going to make very little sense.)
Epic freaking fail.
Your hands. Your arms. Your lips and eyes and your face as a whole. Your hands. Your feet. Those legs. And your ass. And your HANDS. And then your chest and your stomach and your back. Maybe not that order. Your lips lips lips. Your hands.
All things come to an end. I know this. Good things. Bad things. And I start worrying about the end before we even near it. Make it not hurt! I pray to whatever god. Make me ready for the ending. Help me not mourn it when it is over. I pause in the middle of books and contemplate never reading more. Then it won't have to end. And here I am vacillating between readiness and a death grip. This isn't working.
You're right. I'm wrong. Easy to say. So easy. But I don't think you see everything. Or I don't see you seeing everything.
This dress. And the things you aren't allowed doing to it. Why would it not be a good idea? I lied. I just wouldn't be content with one thing. Either stop staring or start using your hands. One or the other.
And when I said I wasn't drinking tonight, you took it the complete wrong way.
Resolve. Something I completely lack. Watch me painting futures in my head. See how they change? As permanent as shifting clouds. Dissipate. Float across the sun.
Slow down. Think about something else. Something else. Something else.
I am a paper figure. I look so strong. But see how I bend? See how the creases never quite come out? That isn't really a backbone. I'm not really so strong. I just don't fight the wind.
Sometimes I think there is a public version of you and a different version of you when we're alone. And I really like one of those versions. And sometimes even when we're alone I get the public you. I can tell the difference. It makes me want to hide from you too.
I stack up all the bad things in my head. Repeat them over and over. Emphasize and exaggerate them until I almost feel like I can not care so freaking much. But it doesn't matter. Because I love you. You. Not just the good parts or the charming parts or the parts that don't hurt me.
Something else. Something else. Something else.
The blanket all saturated in his scent wrapped around my shoulders, filling every breath.
Friend friend friend. He is a friend. JUST a friend.
His hands on my neck for the briefest of moments. My racing heart.
Friend friend friend.
The smile across the darkness.
The compliment. The open staring.
Something else. Something else. Work.Or my plans for tomorrow. Or the fact that he is going away. Too far away. 4.5 hour drive. Too far to see him once a week. Once a month, maybe.
All things come to an end. Is this what is happening?
He promises there will never be an end. We'll be old and he'll still be bitching at me about whatever it is that makes old men mad. I don't understand his surety. I keep finding endings. Too many endings. And some I made myself.
Maybe everything will be okay. Just fine. Things always seem less serious in the morning.
At any rate:
Epic fail for Sarah Jo. Good job at not caring. Good job at taking a step back. Epic, epic fail.