September 12, 2003
At This Time of Night?
The first thing I did when I got to Mike's house at sometime around 6? Lay down in bed.
It smelled like him. And I swooned. Seriously. I felt all my delicious parts tingling and I wrapped myself up in his comforter and proceeded to take an hour long nap.
That's love, then.
I've been spending a considerable amount of time over at my deviantART gallery, and, amazingly enough, my rampant commenting has actually earned me a few quality comments myself. Needless to say, my little battered ego appears to be recovering. We've moved from purple bruises to yellow. We're going to try not to get into any more fights with Dance Auditions, that's for sure.
Now, if only I could get published in the undergraduate poetry and prose magazine, Inklings. I would truly appreciate any comments concerning which pieces I should submit (for those few of you who do visit my gallery), seeing as I tend to choose my weird, abstract pieces that no one likes but me.
So.
I'm looking at Mike's desk and there is a wilted purple flower from the bouquet he bought me a few weeks ago (which is still in a vase on the kitchen table, no one having yet taken notice of its withering). There is still a faint odor to this flower, the petals retain yet their colour. Was this the flower I tucked into my braid after we had That Same Old Fight? Or was this the one I placed behind my ear as I waited for him to come home from work, arching up out of the computer chair every three minutes to steal a glance of the street, and perhaps his headlights? Did I press it to his nose, later, laughing? Did he push it away, but pull me down?
I told him the other day on the telephone, as I was curled in the hallway of my dorm, feeling foolish, that I think that I am becoming the woman both he and I want me to be. He told me when he first saw me that I looked as though I were capable, and independent, sitting there reading a book and disregarding all that happened around me. He told me I was beautiful and elegant and self-contained.
I don't think he realized, then, that what he saw was me trying to be all of those things. But the fact that he saw that, and not something else, is significant to me. In my past I have had these shining moments of self upon self, when the discord that is my countenance settles and fuses, desire paired with desperation. I find this happening more and more often, I find myself at ease with all of my other selves.
Why did we ever argue in the first place?
astera at 9:09 p.m.