a victoria p


10 February 2008

As Far As You're Concerned, This is (Old) Fiction

The onset of depression-- it's weird; I'm starving. I walked home in a perfect 4/4 beat, in my Nazi boots-- whatever percussion classes I had even ever taken-- pah. I sledged my heels into the ground. I only looked back once, but long and hard and squinty-eyed and sentimental. You were long gone by the time I turned my head. I'm okay with that; I feel I left my mark.

"I love you for sentimental reasons."

I slowed my pace. I looked back when I reached the spot in the sidewalk where we had been as physically close as we had ever been-- not very close at all but close enough that I could still smell your scent off of your clothes, my head against your knee. I have exited a cab in the very spot of the sidewalk (even though it's not quite where I live) nights without you and all by myself, because that's what love will do to you-- weird, stupid nostalgic shit. I typed that last sentence with a tear leaking out of my right eye. It's nothing I expect-- nothing I want or long for anymore. It's no obligation in the negative sense of an obligation. It's not really a burden in how a burden watches over you all day long. Not anymore. It's different than a longing, as well, although I long to be with you right now-- I do, I admit that. But right now I am simply relapsing.

I long to be quiet with you. Not talk. You talk too much sometimes and I get caught up in just watching you. I want to carefully remove every other person in the room, precisely, distinctly-- and be left alone with just you.

I want to press my hands up your chest and nestle my way into your neck and ears and whatever, all from my tiptoes. I want to hear what naturally becomes of your voice when you're pleased-- I can almost hear it in my head, but it's completely invented from what it may sound like just from knowing your usual voice. I want to grip your lean forearms with my little hands and firmly rub them up and down-- damn I can even picture your forearms. I want to see your head thrown back and your eyes closed and I want to part your lips with my fingers and throw you down. Tip-toe around a bed tripping on our undone pants; eventually leading to the sound of the sheets swishing around our bare legs and heavy breathing. I want to pause then, just for a moment, look at you letting it all build up even more and then have you. Finally have you. I think it would be like losing my virginity again. I'm that tense thinking about you in that way.

I look like hell. My breath smells rancid. I wish I could shake this feeling.

My coworker could swear that I went home with you tonight. Went home, went home. I told her (dead sober) that I would marry you tomorrow and I probably would. Marry you in the sense of moving far, far away. Physically or mentally-- just very out of reach of everything familiar, maybe to some rocky coast. I told her not to question me and that these were exceptional circumstances and to just leave me the fuck alone on this one.

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