I dreamt about you last night. One upside of the dream was that I had an elegantly disheveled apartment. S had recently told me some of the benefits of the new B. I was angry and phoned you and we had one of those hilarious and epic fights we would have over the phone in the early stages of the end. I don't remember what I said but I was sad and angry, eventually you hung up and then I called back and she answered and I said something spiteful, but it made me feel better. I prefer when these things happen in my dreams - not in real life. Perhaps the dreams come because I've been thinking about you late at night before I fall asleep. It starts out as a tickle in my periphery and then it creeps into the forefront. All these things that I have to work through while you are able to un-empathetically ignore everything and forge onward. I would love that level of detachment to wash over me.
Truthfully it's not that easy. I don't understand how one just forgets. Pretty much everything in my life reminds me. Being around men again particularly, specifically people who are somehow enigmatically attractive. For example - if there's someone who smells good I flash back to all the times I would have my head in the crook of your neck and the softness and warmth of the skin there. The coppery smell of your sweat, the tang. And it all rushes back.
tell me it's over/Rusbel awaits/I've been to the surface and nothing is there
Suddenly all I see is the outline of light around a doorway and am walking towards it, my feet are bare on the eons old wood flooring and the hallway is dank. The door opens with a hollow sound and we're in our office again. The conte sketches lie piled under the tables and there are drawings of Warner Brothers and Disney characters all over the black matting on the wall. Home. Home because you are there.
I'm taken back to the time we spent just sitting around, wondering why I didn't appreciate those moments more, why I didn't pay more attention.
I'm in bed and my mind again drifts off towards the apartment, the shirt I can't find, so I take mental inventory of everything I took and everything you left. For some reason I'm reminded of how you left a bunch of paperwork from the chest of drawers. I wonder if you took the white cotton braided wristlet I absentmindedly made. I remember you wore it for months at a time, I don't know why. It reminds me of how delicate it looked on your wrist. How absolutely beautifully exposed your wrist bones were. Damn you and the influence you've had on me in terms of anatomy.
I won't even get into the subject of your face. My hands ache to touch what is not mine to touch any longer. At this point I hate memory, muscle memory, all memory. Damn you. Damn you to hell. But only for those brief several minutes a day when I'm taken back.
I remember having those silent moments of reverie where I would stare at you and be completely outside myself thinking "Here sits this man of his own free will, this beautiful man and he's talking....to me....and he's mine" (for now). Like I knew it wouldn't last.
Who knew we were heading for such a violent fall? Both of us probably. I miss you incredibly - and longingly. As if it hasn't clicked...ah, would you have done it had I not acquiesced? This runs through my head.every.damn.day. Yet still I loved. However the man you are is not the man I fell in love with. Story of life and the world I guess.
I can't believe you when your thirst won't let me go/I am the moment you were always speaking of because....
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