Wednesday, 30 March 2011

all I know is that today I missed you when weren’t there, that I felt your absence in my bones. I felt nervous, I felt ill at ease, I felt that I needed to see you, to touch you to calm myself down. I felt that just standing near you wasn’t close enough. And when you swept by me and didn’t say anything as I sat typing on the computer, pointedly ignoring you after you’d snubbed me earlier, and you stopped for a second only to dip down to kiss my cheek before walking away, I felt like my heart had been shot with a little adrenaline-tipped arrow. And I didn’t want to leave at the end of the day, I didn’t want to let go of your hand. And when I went to bed last night, as water from the tap filled my glass, warmed by the quiet darkness of the kitchen at three am, I felt alone. I felt kind of like I wanted you to be waiting for me. I felt kind of like getting on my bicycle. But I don’t feel like I want you. I don’t want to want you. And I wonder if instead I feel like I need you. Sometimes at least. I feel like our collision is inevitable, like it’s supposed to happen. And it’s strange because I’m not used to it, feeling this quiet desperation to be close to's not lust, it's just a longing...for what? I don’t understand it, I can’t work it out. Normally by now I’d have run away, slamming the door because my dormant heart refused to awake. But not now, now the smallest brush of your lips on my cheek is enough to leave me a little dazed, a little confused, no longer annoyed, just incredibly…ah. And scared too, scared because I don’t know what to make of your words or your moods or the way you look sometimes or why you’d want me, and because I can’t understand myself, because the way I feel is in a constant state of flux, because the best thing that can come from this might also be the worst thing.

I had my books and my poetry to protect me. Had.