Like sun searing, that scorch as quickly over as it takes an x-ray to click a picture all the way through every last bone in a broken child. That’s what first kissing was like, a furnace star rhythm, tongue tips askew in electric surprise where you leaned into me and I looked up at you.
Meanwhile, I’m at my computer, waiting for Jeff to call, (he’s in from Japan this week), and vaguely tidying my room. There’s a Douglas Adams memorial being held at the Butchershop Floor today from noon until midnight, but I’m finding I seem to lack the impetus to go. It’s more a consideration of funds, I think. I’m back to being Too Broke For Busfare TM. It’s time to hike up my skirt and walk everywhere, which is partially why I live where I live, so I’ll survive. “Wait,” I want to tell the world, “my feet are getting a little tired, can we sit down a minute and look at everything?”
Today might result in taking photos in spite of the dying daylight. I’m not sure what else to do. I’m feeling very alone today, like I want to wrap myself in flesh, but not the people who would offer it. I miss looking over to a cello sweep of hair, but I can’t find reason enough to call them. Standing me up twice, canceling a date, and playing the avoidant bastard aren’t positive reinforcement. “Give me back my keys. They aren’t for you. These are for my lover, the person who creeps in at night and wakes me with kisses in inappropriate places. You aren’t that person, you haven’t been in a while, if even you ever were. I want them back now, give them to me.” While he was walking away, he called me on his cellphone, “I don’t know why, but I feel happy now, relieved. I’ll see you on Saturday” and then he laughed. I felt like throwing the phone across the room. What was the point of any of that?