Walk in time with your stride

Sometimes lag behind

To smell your sweet smell.

Even here;

In the aisles full of shiny, useful things

Cold and angular things

I feel your need pulling at my second chakra

Hot tendrils lick the insides of my stomach, the womb of wanting.

This hidden volcanic artery is either

Empty or full-

Surging or dead-

And leaves behind a hole drilled deeper every time.

We both move oddly with hands in pockets to prevent their touching,

Afraid of those forces we cannot understand;

Cannot control.

There is no in-between with you;

There never was, My Arien.

It's clear to me now that I never had a choice.

I quit fighting the urge to kneel at your feet.

I quit fighting the dreams with you in it.

I started loving you the way I always wanted to.

There is something unnerving about your power over me;

Its dangerous, I don't know what I might do.

My head on your chest-

The best thing yet...

To feel your heartbeat as fast as my breaths.

My love, your pulse betrays my effect.

I thought we were done, but it’s not over yet...

As it happens, you’re just as confused as me,

With my hands in your hair and my lips begging please.

Your resolve is a fiction, fake auto-biography. 

Beautiful Mess, we’re a perfect mistake.

This is just what I needed...

You really do love him, don’t you?

Willing to back away to preserve and respect...

     Who is this girl with a conscience?

But unable to physically cooperate

Chemically

Emotionally

Morally

We do not want to be this person,

Wasting all of our time on lost causes and

False hopes. Impossible dreams. Crippling infatuations.

But We are that person; always were... 

This same gift that sews words together and 

Reaps the music of sadness, well,

It also reads minds like novellas and

Thrives off seduction; manifests some molten desire in you: 

An insatiable power if ever there was one. 

It knows things that neither of us can see 

Yet.

It craves things We cannot have; seems to twist the very universe to It’s will.

But trajectories demand perfection.

Calculable to the -nth degree, we can point to a spot in the sky 

Where, 1,000,000,000 light years from now, a star is already dead.  Still shining.  

Where logic says things like, “This light is an illusion of time; it is not really there,” and,

“The two of you can never come together,” 

The truth replies simply, “And yet, it is. And yet, they do.”

Do you love yourself?  Don't you love yourself?

He is happy with her. She is beautiful.   It does not mean you are ugly.

You can honestly say you love them both?  Then stop. It's selfish. It's not right, because her feelings would be more than hurt. The relationship of the whole family is at stake here, and look at you: pining away like a lovesick teenager for the last 8 years...  If it feels bad, that's because it is.

If you follow it to its logical end, you will see: what your heart is asking for, and what you will receive, will never be enough. He can never touch you the way you need to be touched, or hold you the same. He can't be there for you when you're hurt, no matter how much Mars you see in that jawline or in his tall frame. There is one who can, but you are asleep in his bed, dreaming.  

This man is one of those dreams you have to wake up from...

He has none of himself save his essence to give; The very essence you begged for without words. Apply your intuition your criticism your discernment your logic your emotional intelligence apply these to yourself and your situation.

How can he honestly care about you the way you're asking? There is no time for you. You are asleep, walking through life with hopes and dreams and never really seeing them clearly. You are killing yourself all day and he is unaware; not cruel, not uncaring, just busy.  His plate is full.

You must find balance within yourself if you want to hang on to this thread.        But the thread kills us.

You can be his true friend and still love him when you're together, but you're going to have to be able to maintain strenghth without him. Take only the pieces he has to give.

Why is this secret so important to you? What are you proving to yourself? That you're desirable?  That you have free choice?  That you're not dead?  That you're not too old/uninteresting/unattractive?      Wow, I guess we do have a lot of insecurities riding on this obsession...

There is the other piece; the glass under skin, that small matter of mass: He is tall enough to allow you to feel feminine. He is tall enough to shadow the memory of the last man who made you feel this way; the one who ripped your heart out of your chest (maybe he's here to finish the job); Tall enough to allow you to forget feeling like you were bigger than everyone else ever; To allow you to forget you had to wear boy's clothes in high school because you saw how society portrayed girls, and said, "Welp, WE are not skinny and cute, so we will hide in skater jeans. Then the boy I gave my virginity to can't make fun of my body." Because from day one you gave your heart to some asshole who wiped himself clean on your softness, Some jerk who couldn't balance a flat compliment; Some douche who washed your heart away instead of the lonliness. But you're always head over heels for them... Always haunted by apparitions of romance.

Why him?      Because his scent makes my clit stand on end      Because when his hand brushes mine, my second chakra lights up like a            Goddamn nuclear reactor-how can I ignore that???      Because his mental presence is as intrusive as his physical presence   ...Because he reminds me of the first man who made me feel this way

But you will never forget, no matter what he is to you.  

Because even as you sit here writing through the usual emotional fog, you STILL feel this way

inadequate unfeminine untouchworthy

Dear Self: Please stop using lies as friendly fire.

Soon you'll be 35.  Thirty-five years old. When will you grow up? Get your emotional/mental shit together?

We wanted to be somebody's baby Somebody's cute little girl Somebody's wet dream Somebody's sheath Someone's object of desire and poetry and obsession

Pretend there’s one less rise and fall upon the letter M