emma b. says

Saturday, August 25, 2007

All the songs I will not write, hurtling towards October

Sometimes you calculate where you will land, flat on your back between someone else's sheets. Since my run away date looms just over the horizon of the following month, I decided to recycle the hairdresser if he would have me. He would and did.

According to the mile stones I watch it's been four years and and several skins since I set foot in his loft. I am not sorry, not at all. Not sorry that he didn't love me afterall, not sorry that I left, nor am I sorry that I got that last taste of vigorous, acrobatic sex to realize once and for all, that I am fundamentally not the same girl I was four years ago, and he wallows in his self same wondering why it gets harder and harder to captivate at 45 -- I bit my tongue, and inwardly thought perhaps if you could slough that thick sheen of selfishness you might have a shot, but you fuck with your dick and not with your soul, I didn't see it then because I was beguiled. It's a blessing and a curse to have the stars struck from your eyes as a true romantic, what girl of clear nights doesn't want to be dazzled by the evening sky and be wrapped in and blissfully muzzled by it's stellar embrace, swirls of musk and night blooming jasmine billowing in the wake of that shuddering trip across the heavens and time and wordlessness.

Then he's done and you haven't come, the heady mists recede, and it's two people in a very comfortable bed making jokes about a relationship four years gone, one goes quiet and gets serious about consequences and what the other might be wanting (hint - not I) as the other would really like to return to her own bed, I can never sleep when I am not used to sharing a mattress and limbs crossing, I light up and flame like a roman candle, I try to exercise will over my heat, moving it from the spot where his arm lies over my lower back to the foot I have slid out from under the duvet into the stillness of the room, fifty feet above the muffled freeway and the red stream of tail lights. It never works. I have woken with hand prints and seams, and wrinkled pillow cases seared onto my skin, and the strange case in a bitterly cold january night in New York after far too much scotch where I became one with my pyjama bottoms and spent an unhappy morning chipping them from my thighs.

I digress.

I have digressed so far from my original thoughts that I should be off to the serenity of my sheets.


Post a Comment

<< Home