April 5, 2004
Sour in the Mouth
Tonight is closing in, like curtains on a canopied bed. The kind with the mirrors, and I'm watching myself squirm in the sheets, ankles and teeth bared as I battle the demons in my dreams, the vampire conciousness I am left with when all semblance of waking self has passed.
Tonight I've devoured books and green tea but both have left me tasting sour in the mouth, my bones cramped and wanting for something cotton-simple and quiet, like hot tea in bed with his legs rubbing against mine, coarse black hairs grown downy in my desire to merely be wrapped up in another body.
I want to forsake this one I'm wrestling with, at the moment, for I grow battle-weary.
I'm like laundry spilling from the basket, not so much dirty as worn thin, or too much, discarded for fear of taint than the actual presence of. I want to go to bed but instead I perch, before computer and telephone, waiting for the glow of one to join with the other, fusing lines of communication.
I need to talk to him at night, need to talk to him now, say something along the lines of what would pass through my lips if he were mere inches away, smile and stubble pressed against his pillow. I wouldn't kiss his lips but instead the hollow of his shoulder, the tight space of his sternum and the tuft of black hair there, his belly. I wouldn't intimate sex so much as rest my hand in the warm place between his thighs, palm flat and familiar.
This feigned youth is killing me. College is making veteran of me.
astera at 11:53 p.m.