i found something i'd written a long time ago in an old journal today.
im going to write it here for the sake of any woman who loved someone who was emotionally unavailable and then finally got over it. I think its kindof funny.....
An empty wine glass hovers like an elegant tooth near the edge of the windowsill, clouded slightly at the rim with the print of his lips. strangely i feel nothing, though the evidence of his familiar mouth might have unhinged me before.
There was a time when his limp embrace would have sent my fingers into a fit, groping like shy blind worms for a spot on his skin or in his hair that felt natural and not burning to the touch. and there were moments when i was left with no choice but to lace myself in precariously, cramming huge drooping rolls of emotion like fat into a corset, even though its confinement made it difficult to breathe.... then he would kiss me and the corset's stays would burst, spilling my honesty in all it's garish obesity. And he would turn his back to it disgusted, and fix his eyes on any available glittering thing in the distance.
But not anymore. Last night i savored the dance, collecting the debt of his emotion, tapping into the private horde he had denied me so many times before.
Then i took his glass from his hand and set it on the windowsill quietly, drawing him over to the white folds of my bed. this time there was nothing to unravel-- no armor to undo-- only a black lace bra to unhook and discard. i climbed on top of his body and gripped him with my insides until he came all over himself.
I tossed him a towel and looked down at him, his face nestled into my pillow like a piglet against a sow's belly, and his freckles seemed to deepen--- his eyelashes seemed to curl up like those of the contented cows in butter commercials. That face i knew so well gazed back at me, bashfully blinking and silently petitioning that i, too, pretend the moment was fresh and virginal.
I smiled, but it was a smile as if for an infant--- both tender and impatient, both sweet and condescending--- and then i fell asleep.
When he left this morning i noticed my sheets has become saturated with his stink. I rose, naked, crossed to the heavy desk and opened a drawer. Inside i found a fat pad of post-it notes and wrote the word "laundry" on the top peice with a black sharpie pen. I peeled it from the rest of the stack, yawning, and went to post it conspicuously on the inside of my apartment's front door.
im going to write it here for the sake of any woman who loved someone who was emotionally unavailable and then finally got over it. I think its kindof funny.....
An empty wine glass hovers like an elegant tooth near the edge of the windowsill, clouded slightly at the rim with the print of his lips. strangely i feel nothing, though the evidence of his familiar mouth might have unhinged me before.
There was a time when his limp embrace would have sent my fingers into a fit, groping like shy blind worms for a spot on his skin or in his hair that felt natural and not burning to the touch. and there were moments when i was left with no choice but to lace myself in precariously, cramming huge drooping rolls of emotion like fat into a corset, even though its confinement made it difficult to breathe.... then he would kiss me and the corset's stays would burst, spilling my honesty in all it's garish obesity. And he would turn his back to it disgusted, and fix his eyes on any available glittering thing in the distance.
But not anymore. Last night i savored the dance, collecting the debt of his emotion, tapping into the private horde he had denied me so many times before.
Then i took his glass from his hand and set it on the windowsill quietly, drawing him over to the white folds of my bed. this time there was nothing to unravel-- no armor to undo-- only a black lace bra to unhook and discard. i climbed on top of his body and gripped him with my insides until he came all over himself.
I tossed him a towel and looked down at him, his face nestled into my pillow like a piglet against a sow's belly, and his freckles seemed to deepen--- his eyelashes seemed to curl up like those of the contented cows in butter commercials. That face i knew so well gazed back at me, bashfully blinking and silently petitioning that i, too, pretend the moment was fresh and virginal.
I smiled, but it was a smile as if for an infant--- both tender and impatient, both sweet and condescending--- and then i fell asleep.
When he left this morning i noticed my sheets has become saturated with his stink. I rose, naked, crossed to the heavy desk and opened a drawer. Inside i found a fat pad of post-it notes and wrote the word "laundry" on the top peice with a black sharpie pen. I peeled it from the rest of the stack, yawning, and went to post it conspicuously on the inside of my apartment's front door.
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Or whether I want to sleep with your picture