this is not the end of days or recency bias

[sobota]

I am tired of listlessness. Every time I sit down to tell this journal something important, my brain can't think beyond watching the numbers count down until someone, somewhere, tells me that I'm over my character limit. Thinking in 140 characters is bothersome and worrisome; I prefer ink on paper but sometimes the pen skips.

All I can think of, beyond this moment and that moment, is how we are beyond compatible. The last time we talked at any length your words were like a balm on my soul and I felt each breath like a thousand beautiful kisses. We sat and I watched you de(con)struct and now building you back together is hard because my fingers keep slipping over your skin.

I need your fingers in my hair and I need your heartbeat under my lips and I need your hips against mine. I want to be your factory girl, but somehow my heart's being broken before I can even find the last piece.

This is us: in the back-seat, thighs barely touching; in my bedroom, watching each other (or the television); on the beach, watching the last gasp of sunset. What are we hearing? I can't share my headphones, but I promise it's good.

With the windows down, it smells like dawn. Between my sheets, it smells like your (un)clean skin. If only we had known...maybe we could have tried this once before, when we were young and my wrists were still bruised.

I still talk about Singapore like it meant something, but maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Maybe it was Osaka, when I was early and scared, and you called to ask where I was. I remember your voice better than I remember the lyrics to the last song I heard. Your voice has become my last great lullaby, and I haven't heard it long enough to go to sleep.

Sometimes I wish I could curse you and your insistence on having my heart. It isn't mine to give.

I'm telling you this in the distinct hope that you'll wake up tomorrow, next to her, and see me.