I love watching you sleep, your hair falling across your forehead, short curls brushing pale skin like droplets of paint splashing in smooth motions on a pure canvas. Aside from the occasional fluttering of eyelids as you drift in and out of varying waves, you remain sweetly at rest and unknowingly allow yourself to be vulnerable and at peace for a few hours. I find myself wondering what you are thinking about, dreaming about, I want to know, I want to know everything. I touch your bones and trace the way they frame your beautiful torso, my hands glide gently over the sharp appeal that you so humbly offer me night after night. When you wake you smile slowly at me and reach toward the foot of my bed, searching for the slow death in the pocket of your pants, eager to light your lungs before you allow a single word to escape from between your sweet lips. I press my lips together in silent disapproval but say nothing as you reach toward me and run your hands through the hair you so viciously tangled only five hours ago. Pushing fingers into skin, leaving bright imprints, hard. I feel bruised in the most beautiful way, torn and bleeding desire, anxiety, anything, everything. Holding me by my hair, I silently beg you to throw me away but you draw me in, breathing into my ear, and I’ll make an exception this time. Press press press press press, you match me so well.
I am both far and close to the fatal collapse that tempts me daily. Smoke rings blow in my direction, rough hands smooth my hair down in the morning, strange lips meet, connections are made. I am adapting as I find myself laughing about the simple things I cannot change, smiling at strangers, floating past those who speak of my life behind closed doors, briefly pitying their boredom and dissatisfaction before forgetting of that one short minute that made them falsely powerful. We are ultimately the same, wanting the same fundamental things but torn apart by the absurdity of what we do not care to understand. Forever evolving and swimming toward the things that seem important, creating uneccessary distance from the minimalistic nature of our deepest desires. Maybe I am too easily satisfied, wishing to pierce holes in bodies and string them together in an attempt to recognize the beauty that exists in a simple understanding between two people polarized by varying courses of life. What are we waiting for?
