October 9, 2002
Revolving Door
Who knows where thoughts come from. They just appear.
I am listening to a mix I made of the retarded music that drives my soul, those songs which bring back to me August nights in the truck, laughter in the driveway, smiles shared when bodies are close.
Why is it that no matter what I am doing I am thinking of him, thinking of when I am next going to see him? I called him. He asked me when I was coming down.
I better get started walking. He is expecting me at five a.m. And I won't have to wake him up, seeing as he slept all day.
Sleep. I remember that.
"Say something in German. Say something nice."
Mike pauses, fingering his glass. His eyes light up.
"Ich liebe dich."
I grin.
"What does that mean?"
He strokes my hand.
"I love you."
It's not nearly so beautiful in Spanish, so I do nothing but blush and turn promptly to putty.
I can imagine him right now, wearing the only pair of jeans he ever wears, in a gray/blue t-shirt, sitting on the couch with one leg tucked under the other, maybe even drinking some hot tea. I wish I was there. I wish my hands were warmed with a cup and his presence.
I've been writing on In Another's Footsteps. Morrigan is finally marrying Jurnus. She claims that there is more beauty in the world than ever she imagined.
Yeah, it's kind of like that.
Have you ever just been content to watch a person? To be warmed to your core simply by their being alive, being alongside you?
I don't worry that I'll never publish a book. I worry that people won't like it.
I don't worry that I won't get married and have a family someday. I worry that my children's names won't be Michael and Evelyn.
Crazy, isn't it?
This has been the best day, the best two days, consecutively, that I've had in a long time.
Twenty has started off good.
I am so happy I could cry. At the same time I am sad and desperate, but softly so. Patiently so. I can wait my turn. I can wait for my moment.
I think I am going to paint my nails bright purple and go to bed. If I dream of him, it won't be enough. I know the sweetness that is the rise and fall of his chest, I know the treasure that is his gaze, be it fevered or generous. I know his bed. I know his arms and his legs and every inch of him. I've washed his back with soap and kisses.
I want that everyday. I want that everynight.
Patiently so. I can wait my turn. I can wait for my moment.
astera at 9:47 p.m.