There is something extremely frustrating fundamentally sewn into wanting what you can't have, which is an intrinsic part of the definition, of course.  I am still far too surprised when I experience this, and I experience it often.  I often find that I am subtly drawn to a person, just so, wanting to see them or talk to them without much subtext - until it all gets complicated, and I offend a girlfriend, or suddenly realise that there is something dark and molecular happening, or perhaps realise that they aren't so unobtainable after all...which only leads to bad things.

The hairy man is obviously out of the question - three weeks ago now since I had permission to twist my fingers into yours [I think you would probably appreciate that your praises are sung on a page of a wonderful website dedicated to hairy men:  http://www.kommiekomiks.com/luddig-poesi.htm, which has made me realise that what I really want is someone more in the shape of you, not the skinny, short men who mirror me.  I want to be small in your arms], and therefore I want you.  Damn.

This one, however...you are actually enthusiastic about my ideas for campus, and we went to look at the field to calculate just how many windmills I would have to make to cover 20 square metres (four hundred. really).  We sat out in front of the Portland building so you could smoke, on the platforms either side of the stairs; I was fairly surprised when you made me stand up, stood behind me with arms linked and pulled forwards, propelling me horizontal - performance art of a morning to stretch my back.  My spine crackled when you grasped me in a Heimlich manner and arched backwards; my arms spread outwards like a starfish, swearing mildly but unflustered.  I felt much better afterwards.  I like hanging around you.  You're engaged, of course, which is why.  It all felt very normal, but must have looked particularly odd.  Good.

so...

i'm pretty sure i'm going to move to scraps.  this will still be here, but just for future reference, the other one will be updated much more frequently.  it feels better.

service announcement over.

*hugs*

so, an abrupt ending - it really wasn't me, and i'm not saying that because i have to believe it.  suffice to say, he is ridiculous and cannot be dealing with having any kind of girlfriend-based responsibilities - self imposed, i might add, because i never asked anything of him and he recognises that - and so i am again single.

i am in turns upset, relieved that i don't have to deal with certain things i was beginning to worry about and rational and levelheaded.

what a fucking waste.



i am writing more in scraps now, although that one is more for the junk of my et ceteras.  nothing like a change of scene and an annoying emotional metaphysical equivalent of a big spike to the temple to create some kind of writing disease.

sometimes i feel like scrapping this whole thing, because things change so fast and the last entries switch mercilessly to inappropriate or mocking or whiny.  or i worry that x person is reading, and won't understand that i write endlessly and that they should not feel anything in response to the inspiration they produce; it does not signify obsession, clinginess, any particular emotional response...it means nothing other than ideas germinated from a base in you, although that base is everything except fictional.  
you bloody better not be reading this, N.

you wanted to know quite what i had in mind.


i want to learn you with my eyes closed, explore the braille of your body and the spaces and stutters in your unpunctuated sentences.  you talk in a delicious mix of quirk and private-school tones that i have curled into a sonnet and stitched into the delicate bones of my ear; hammer, hammer, hammer, pulsed and soft under your hard a's and cultured choirboy.  you are cream, baby, velvet, white russian with one hundred proof vodka and rich, thick milk.  chocolate.  ice.

i want to bury my nose into the cushion of your chest, twirling hair around my fingers and glancing over the shape of muscle, taut, tripping only the tips against your torso.  your waist arcs, smooth, a leading line of delirious skin that i could press my lips to, distill your essence.  i know your smell.  i know the surprise of your sharp little movements, finger-twitch in sleep.  i know the line of your teeth.

i want to know more.

and then i want to make you come, over and over and over...

last night i watched you sleeping, lips black from red wine and breath catching from two sneaked cigarettes..you've quit, and were to complain about your nose wanting to fall off in the morning.  the detritus and paraphenalia of your front room, your floor, your kitchen sink was scattered over my skin and your donated drinks were warm in my belly.  i will tidy when i come back.  i left my coat on your floor and my ghost-fingertips in your hair.

dammit, but you're lovely.  and i blame you entirely for making me miss another nine o'clock.

I take a mouthful of tea from the new space-age-heat-keeping cup that came with my hot drink machine; the novelty is fast wearing off.  I should have bought a kettle to go with my beloved mugs and spotty china that may not suck in the warmth quite as well as this silver-and-black affair, but rather spreads it to my cold, thin fingers of a morning.
I exhale, and am surprised to see steam inside this freezing house.

I am cold.

there is something secret in your eyes; whispered, breathless, out of reach in the blue.  sometimes i can't picture you and this makes me afraid.
i had forgotten the trepidation and paranoia and spine-shivers that come with wanting somebody to stay, wanting somebody to desire every fibre and every moment available..realising that this is a stupid dream, realising that i am wrong and out of shape and unworthy.  i am suddenly coming to believe that this is over even before i have seen you.  i have written your script for opting out and it goes something like this: this isn't going to work.  i can see you mouthing it and i would not blame you, even though i think it could.

this is where i start fretting.

the little messages i didn't mean to send; 'wisher well' was not trivialising your friend's pain, it was a play on 'wish you well' and i realise that this is not what it sounds like: the stupidity of text messages and their irretrievable permanence.

Four seasons in one day
Lying in the depths of your imagination
Worlds above and worlds below
The sun shines on the black clouds hanging over the domain

Even when you’re feeling warm
The temperature could drop away
Like four seasons in one day

Smiling as the shit comes down
You can tell a man from what he has to say
Everything gets turned around
And I will risk my neck again, again

You can take me where you will
Up the creek and through the mill
All the things you can’t explain
Four seasons in one day

Blood dries up
Like rain, like rain
Fills my cup
Like four seasons in one day

It doesn’t pay to make predictions

Sleeping on an unmade bed
Finding out wherever there is comfort there is pain
Only one step away
Like four seasons in one day

Blood dries up
Like rain, like rain
Fills my cup
Like four seasons in one day



  - Four Seasons In One Day, Crowded House (tabs easy and available on request)

but now, I'm calm, and I can just...take what comes.
numb.

also absolutely stuffed full of chinese food.  all you can eat turned out to be a bad plan.