What You Want, What I Need

Sometimes I imagine us, squinting out fuzzy blossoms of daylight, 6.57 in the morning. You'd let out a tired sigh of content and arch your back against my stomach as I rub my thumbs in circles on either side of your navel. I press my face into the crook of your neck, the fine hairs at the bottom of your skull softly caressing my cheek. The sunlight is pouring in now, through the slits in your curtain, casting shadows on your body that I delicately trace with my fingertips. I lean in closer, lips barely brushing against your bare shoulder, breathing, warm breaths on your skin, hands gently urging you closer. My eyes close as I give in desire, pressing my lips against your neck to taste your skin.

Then there's sometimes where I imagine us in the still privacy of your bedroom, heat hanging low in the air around us. I trace your silhouette with my gaze; watching your lithe movements makes an urging need pool at the bottom of my stomach. I cross the room to you and you turn to acknowledge my presence. The look on my face must have given me away, but I'm too far gone by now. Two steps and I have you against the wall, my hips pressing against yours. My hands find their way along your spine, kneading into your body in a steady rhythm as you lean into me. I tilt your chin up gently so I can taste your lips. I want to delve into the warmth of your mouth but you begin to clutch me urgently from deep strokes of my hands on your back. I can hear you whimper softly as you dig your nails into the back of my neck. I cannot imagine what sensations you are feeling, but in a moment fueled by carnal urges, I only want to pleasure you more.

Late Fucking Late

Clubber are always late. They don't give a shit if they have something on the next day or anything, they will go late, come home late, wake up late, and be fucking late. I don't fucking care if you reach home at 6 in the morning, don't fucking tell me you can meet me when you can't. If you make that arrangement, I don't care if you have to sacrifice your fucking sleep, you bloody well better be there. Responsibilities man. You foiled my plans, you make me travel out lugging presents for you, and you're so fucking late I have to travel TO YOU and travel back. What the fuck. God knows what's the point of meeting up anymore.

Stages of Missing

You're there somewhere above me 

When I stir awake at 4.26 in the morning 

You whisper down to me from the cracks in the concrete

Beckoning me to play with the shadows on the ceiling

I see you dart across a puddle on the pavement

You pass right after I do, illuminated by blinking lights

I try to run and leave you behind 

But all these watery mirrors show not my reflection, only yours 

There was a day where I came home and you were sitting there on my bed

You drew me in and on top of you, and your flesh felt like fire against my skin

But I couldn't do it

So we fell asleep with my arms around you so tight, I couldn't feel you slip away

You stopped by when I passed out on the sidewalk, having too much to drink

You lifted my chin and stroked the greasy hair off my forehead

I started vomiting violently, my throat lining burned and swelled

You were gone, and I passed out again

One night I woke up at 4.27 and there were no noises in the ceiling

I'd been sober for the past three days and the streetlights outside were dimmed

My breathing grew labourous, I panicked, and I tore at my sheets 

But then you looked up from next to me with a puzzled look and asked me what was wrong

I held onto you for longer than I knew 

And this time, you stayed

The Girl Who Cried Moon

This is the story of the girl who cried moon. This is no documentary of the broken soul nor is it a paragraph off of a romance novel. This is in no way complete nor is it intended to be. This is from a single perspective and is the only truth that needs to be told.

This is the story of the girl who cried moon and the boy who cried wolf. They sat together by the river's edge and spoke of inner demons and unfortunate mishaps. A single teardrop of light spilled from the creases in between blankets of stars and rested gently upon the water's surface. It broke apart into stardust, and ripples carried each fleck of light to the water's edge where the moon and the wolf were resting.

All the moon never knew was to fall in love. All she knew was to love, and love unconditionally all creatures  of the same blood. She was radiant as she was beautiful, and she gave salvation to many a traveler lost out at sea, many flights of geese lost in migration. She did not direct her light in any direction, nor could she direct her love to cradle the one lonely boy trying to find her light.

All the wolf knew was to fall in love, and fall in love he did. If raspy claws could scratch on tightened strings, and if a feeble croak from tired lungs would suffice, he'd paint songs upon songs into the night's canvas just to encompass her in the masterpiece orchestrating itself all around her. But he was a meer wolf, and the nightingale's call was haunting, and the moon was beautiful, and he wished he were a nightingale so he could perch upon the edge of the canyon and weave melodies into her moonlight.

The girl who cried moon and the boy who cried wolf stood together by the river's edge, watching the waves soak up the the last glowing specks off the edge of the watery abyss. Their demons were spilled on the brick floor between them, and both moon and wolf finally looked up for the first time. Here was a girl in a robe seamed in light, and here was a boy in a heavy hood of fur. She was kind as she was beautiful and fall in love he did, as he made quiet promises locked in an oath as she placed chaste lips upon his scarred cheek.
He could've howled.

This is written by the boy who cried wolf, and this is the only truth he knows. This is in no way complete for its only the beginning of everything he hopes for, and his broken soul all and more is all he will give to write this romance. This is the story of the girl who cried moon, and the boy who fell in love with her for it.

Stupid Crazy Feeling

Things have changed quite a bit from when I last wrote in. Same blacks and whites, same pieces on the board, but we're in different places. 

The first time I held your hand, it was my birthday. You took me out that day, we had cheap takeout and played with sparklers in the park, the park was a-wash with the smell of afterrain and we stargazed like the universe was in the palm of our hands. I'd been wary of going too fast, and even as your fingers were grazing mine, that thought still clouded my mind. 

--

All I know now is that every time I meet you, I fall in love with you again and again.

Step One

That's the thing I keep forgetting. Getting into a relationship with someone doesn't mean you stop learning. It doesn't automatically brand you on the forehead letting you know you've reached your destination. There is no finish line in a relationship, or perhaps there is, only that once you've reached the finish line, the relationship is over.  Not much of a finish line anyway, just a corridor of doors and more doors opening up opportunities to learn more than you ever had about your partner. But the thing is, you want to learn. You'll want to memorise the sequence in which she tosses and turns and stirs awake in her sleep, and you'll want to be able to read the lines on her palms like a map that leads home. You'll want to continue learning because you care about her and you wanna be able to give her something tailor suited to her needs. And I should say this, not every moment will be perfect. You might knock teeth when you first kiss, or you might come to realise you look better in makeup than she does, but it's alright because she's already the most beautiful person in your eyes. Heck, you might even get annoyed that your almost-hug got interrupted by an angry old lady, but you know that what really sparked your concern was seeing the brief moment of fear flicker across her eyes. And you know how she'll always say she'll never be a good girlfriend, but then again, you're not much of a boyfriend either so you pray to any god that you know of that the two of you could just take each others' hands and stumble out into the wilderness together, unprepared but as prepared as you can be. You take turns taking the lead, she's braver than you are, and you fall in love with the way she paints the ground with her feet. The two of you are learning, and it's alright.

Toil and Tolls

I'm sorry. I'm so so tired. It's not that I'm crashing, it's that I've fallen headlong and I'm having trouble gathering my limbs and thoughts to pull myself together. When I hugged you last night and you asked how I felt, I lied to you. I didn't wish that it lasted any longer than it did, I was so caught up in my thoughts that I forgot to hold you closer and I felt guilty for that. It's not much coherent thought now, just a monotonous flurry of noises like some sort of black and white stop motion roll. Flickering. 

--break--

Only now have I been able to pinpoint why I'm unable to read my own thoughts. My thoughts. They're usually a battalion of soldiers, that despite their numbers, march in rows and order. Except this time it isn't an army. It's no single battalion. They come from all directions, different sources of stress caused by a slight shift in my stringent life routines. My thoughts are an army. Except this time, it's war.

It's 8.34 in the morning. My skull feels like iron and I feel bruised behind my eyeballs. And I'm sorry. I'm so so tired.