I should really be asleep
but I am busy trying on old songs to see how they fit on this hour of this night, to see how I wear them at this juncture, is the hem of that favorite song wrong, does the seam hit my shoulders just so, did I outgrow that melody, or did I just get older, accidentally, inadvertantly.
Or not older, maybe just a little more jaded and conversely that much more romantic, in a spindly sort of way.
I must be nearly ready to be heartbroken again because I dream of kissing, strangers and strangers and familiars, kissing, all of them. It's all that dream kissing and real estate listings in other states that have tumbled me into a state.
On the day after Bastille day, after a lovely party, creamer potatoes rendered in duck fat, hello heaven, and some seriously stoney pot, yuh, that's a lot of creamer potatoes and champagne, I awoke in bed not one hundred percent sure how I got home and undressed... but had a tickle of randyness and so was hugging on my bear and getting warmer, so I reached for the BOB and so undid myself, jeesus, but BOB's are efficient, and rather then feeling self satisfied, I started to weep. Because I had just given myself a 30 second orgasm, because I ache for contact, for skin on skin and weight and friction and mouths reaching.
I have hit the celebate nadir, my own personal best, minus the random Irish in the wilds of Oregon, I am feeling desperately sorry for my illspent prime, spent on batteries and latex. And yet, with the last twinges of regret that I slough off the last remnants of love that I had for maudit engineer - maybe I'll tell the tale of how I finally got furious, maybe I wont. I sort of revel in this late blossoming furor, it's another weight to bear and yet it's innvigorating, it's my tinder, it's my tender, radiant spark that is going to ignite the wildfire in me, where I set it all ablaze, turn my back and walk away.
It's close now.
Strike the match.
Next week starts phase II of better living through plastic surgery, I gave notice to my job, I am scarily galvanised, the very portrait of rectitude. Oh who am I kidding, I am a quivering mass, I just want to drive away and be done with history. It's just not that simple or maybe it is. It's too late to be chasing after prehensile tails, imagined and otherwise, go to sleep, hold tight to your bear, it's an inanimate comfort, but you will take what you can get in the absence of love or even desire, it's something to hold to when the hour turns towards witching.
but I am busy trying on old songs to see how they fit on this hour of this night, to see how I wear them at this juncture, is the hem of that favorite song wrong, does the seam hit my shoulders just so, did I outgrow that melody, or did I just get older, accidentally, inadvertantly.
Or not older, maybe just a little more jaded and conversely that much more romantic, in a spindly sort of way.
I must be nearly ready to be heartbroken again because I dream of kissing, strangers and strangers and familiars, kissing, all of them. It's all that dream kissing and real estate listings in other states that have tumbled me into a state.
On the day after Bastille day, after a lovely party, creamer potatoes rendered in duck fat, hello heaven, and some seriously stoney pot, yuh, that's a lot of creamer potatoes and champagne, I awoke in bed not one hundred percent sure how I got home and undressed... but had a tickle of randyness and so was hugging on my bear and getting warmer, so I reached for the BOB and so undid myself, jeesus, but BOB's are efficient, and rather then feeling self satisfied, I started to weep. Because I had just given myself a 30 second orgasm, because I ache for contact, for skin on skin and weight and friction and mouths reaching.
I have hit the celebate nadir, my own personal best, minus the random Irish in the wilds of Oregon, I am feeling desperately sorry for my illspent prime, spent on batteries and latex. And yet, with the last twinges of regret that I slough off the last remnants of love that I had for maudit engineer - maybe I'll tell the tale of how I finally got furious, maybe I wont. I sort of revel in this late blossoming furor, it's another weight to bear and yet it's innvigorating, it's my tinder, it's my tender, radiant spark that is going to ignite the wildfire in me, where I set it all ablaze, turn my back and walk away.
It's close now.
Strike the match.
Next week starts phase II of better living through plastic surgery, I gave notice to my job, I am scarily galvanised, the very portrait of rectitude. Oh who am I kidding, I am a quivering mass, I just want to drive away and be done with history. It's just not that simple or maybe it is. It's too late to be chasing after prehensile tails, imagined and otherwise, go to sleep, hold tight to your bear, it's an inanimate comfort, but you will take what you can get in the absence of love or even desire, it's something to hold to when the hour turns towards witching.
posted by emma at
12:58 AM
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