Unlike the rest

I don't know why I went out.  I normally do not.  I have too much to lose there, and too much keeping me at home where we play and read books.  But something about it was different and I felt like I couldn't say no.  That's not true.  I could have.  I almost did, actually.  But I didn't want to.  

And it was a little odd at first, uncomfortable.  Probably growing more so with being thrown together without having heard each other's voices let alone share such a small space.  The wine helped a lot.  By the time our food came, something was different, she was softer, her eyes were like pillows wanting me to rest on.  At one point I said something to her and she paused, touched her heart, and it was like she had wanted someone to say that very thing since she was a little girl.  I can still see the look on her face.  It was like I ripped the air out of her lungs, and was dictating how much of it she could have back.  The remarkable thing is, it was unintended, and that look on her face expressing stolen breath, stole mine from me.  And just like that, she was ready to leave.  I took care of the check and we were gone.

Walking. 

No pressure.  It was comfortable.  She talked to her boss, and had her arm around mine.  I told her the history.  Pointed out blue lit buildings.  I watched the other people while she rambled on about interviews and meetings for Monday.  I was planning my move, and the second she said ended her phone call I spun her to me and kissed her like I planned to.  She was tall, and it was nice not to have to bend over to kiss someone.  That awkwardness from earlier was gone.  She was smiling, telling me about her life, and I was telling her about mine.  It was like we had been together for months.  She rambled on about her gay friends she travelled with, and I went on about my own adventures and the dichotomy that is my life as a redneck backstreet boy.  She said her body hurt, and I offered to rub it for her.  

At her bed I was like a child.  Intimidated.  Her body was amazing.  When I was rubbing it I was like a map maker, wanting to study every contour, every rise and fall, every valley.  I wish I had paid more attention to her bra, and her panties.  I was so struck by her skin that I couldn't focus on anything else.  Touching her was like putting your hands on cooling lava.  I wanted to breathe her in, all of her, and save it for little hints to remind me of it in the future.  I wanted to shove my hand into her chest and massage her heart, being able to feel that it was so cracked and hurting.  When she climbed on top of me I had to ask her time and again to slow down, and for brief periods she would.  Even when I sat her up, she fought back by pushing off the way, insisting on leveraging her will to fuck me over my persistence in requesting she make love to me.  I can still hear her ask that I not cum in her, and remember feeling like I wanted to so badly, and feeling like if I had she wouldn't have minded. 

I freaked out.  I hadn't felt a closeness like that with another woman in a really long time.  I had, in fact, made sure not to, and executed certain parameters to insure it.  Response:  flee.  And so I did.  Only to regret it, deeply, ever since.  And long for nothing more than to be back under that blue-lit building, waiting for her to hang up so I could spin her around, kiss her with all I had, and wait for us to go back to her room where I would stay until breakfast.  She was, you were, different, and unlike all the rest.  And I miss her, as crazy as that sounds.

I miss you.

defined as

I hate to argue

syntax

but meaning is so crucial

isn't it

Deliberate movements

of the mouth

in a private room

clothes thrown

everywhere

or in a darker restaurant

where I can watch you

undressing me with your eyes

watch you swallow hard

and pause

before you tell me 

it's really good

that I can choke you

two thousand dinners like that

I could have in a year 

on tour

one time I wanted dessert

I would walk by you now

like a stranger

you

who's aches I massaged

and who dug her way inside me

just to leave out the back

while the front was still open

and the cold win was blowing through

Anonymous

I think that sometimes I speak too much

and other times not enough

Now, for instance, I feel suffocated

by my own breath

too scared to breathe

or whisper 

I can see you there

across from me

your brain flying 

wondering

curious

Standing beside 

bedside

What the fuck am I doing

You said you liked me

I said a lot of things

all of them broken now

does she fuck every guy who buys her dinner

is she running

am I

is this best

why do I care

what's the point of trying

of looking at her 

of wanting her to write

to give a shit

That body, though.

I know one thing

no other guy will ever kiss you 

by a blue lit building

the way that I did.

Fuck Texas.

And Fuck you too.

I will not eat them

I lost my dog

ya know

somewhere in the vodka

and the carmenere

You probably wouldn't recall

your mind working too fast

he's a writer

he's probably good in bed

am I gonna sleep with him

I wanted to stay

there

in the red sea

you said would be so bad

be unprotected

but I sought shelter

instead

and now I can't go back

You see I had this fear

that I had shared

too much, way too

much

blue buildings

words

History.

No erotica,

Sam I am.

My words are true

and I will not

eat them.

We sat up.

Your hand on the wall.

We sat up.

For my Anna Belle

For that which we have
and have forever
let go of
but never really
held onto

for your lips

for having extended
your ever gentle hand
to massage my cold
broken heart

to heal me
then break me

and for having drawn
from my very breath
the words that would ultimately
force us apart

and for knowing
that in all my mystery
ghostly though I
will now remain

so shall remain
that which drove
the tears of joy

my love.

my most pure
concentrated
unspoiled love

may there come
for us
a day when I
once again

riot
at your soul's door

A dusty ashtray

It's not that I miss you.

I miss my father

and the way that he would 

cringe when he took his first sip

off his cold can of refrigerated Pepsi.

Or the way he was so casually cool

with whatever pothole he would

find himself driving over.

He was a great smoker.

Not like the kind that struggled to imitate 

someone they imagined were cool.

No, he was a natural.  

It was clear to anyone who watched him

that it wasn't about addiction,

he actually enjoyed the whole process

the same way a small child

enjoys a sandbox or a frisbee.

Maybe someday I'll miss smoking,

or the sandbox,

I might even miss you.

Until then I'll miss my father,

and the hope that one day

I'd hear from you again.

looking in

It's a broken window

an unwanted hug

unreturned cry out

that I miss you.

Crying is useless

in usefulness unfounded

by countless hours

of searching for a light.

You can hear me.

I can't hear you.

But I can see you

seeing me

as you saw me.

Would you say

me too.