It's not an accident / you meant to touch me

I'm trying to get past this, you know. I'm trying to let go and forget and not meet your eyes (which is something I've never been good at- not even when it's the mystery of just us and four imposingly warm walls and a gloss of chatter running over, under, all through the mess of unspoken theories and hypothetical feelings). I gave word that I was tired of having these feelings. Sick of the absurd unrequited nature of the propelled-by-lack heart/swell I'd grown of you. And I am sick of it, I'm just not sick of you. I gave word. My word. And the very next day, you drew me back in with such a simple gesture, a natural movement that shouldn't have turned my insides to pulsing warm marbles. The original grip, the surprise gentle slide of a caress reserved for my picture perfect romance (the one where I keep putting you in the role of my Other, my mirror image, my like opposite). But there it was: that prized movement, you against me, so simple as we are but so unnervingly complex (as we are). And not moments later, that dead-lock eye to eye match of wit against authority. A moment tangled between reason and desire. My yen suffered the blow of time and place; my security won again.

It wasn't an accident.You meant to touch me.

IDR and I talked about it/you last night. We were covering Lacan in class, one of my favorites, and the idea of the Lack was at the front of our minds. IDR said my confused want for you is due to what I'm lacking in my life. Of course it is. I mean, it makes sense beyond sense. I don't have what I want, I have something that I thought I wanted and simply cannot handle, and I see in you, crazy maybe, what I want. Need? I don't want to need anything, especially you.

I can't get you out of my head.

We only ever do the same things twice

A slow waking. I wake to sleep and I take my waking slow.

There's no mystery anymore. We dissolved it months ago, put it all on the table and massaged away the ugly remnants of things that should have never been. And so now, the words lie evenly, surrender slowly. We make sense. I know you (how/ time // resolved fascination, and I just do). I like it just as it is.

A lazy day [productively lazy with laundry, grocery shopping, tying up of loose ends, filing taxes, going to read for class] restores the soul.

Our latest conversations sit sweetly in my brain. Nothing more, nothing less. It just is.

I stood my ground this week and was, somehow, subsequently rewarded. Thing is, I'm not a doormat. Maybe I was, in that stifling debilitating "former life," but I've outgrown those roots and settled into something less malleable. One of my whimsical fantasies came to life. Fantasy/wish. Semantics.

Day to day, I watch things fall apart around me. Lack of will, lack of want, overabundance of lack of care. A desire for destruction.

You may never change // I already have.

You're onto me / all over me

I am realigned in fragments of your voice;
the tenacity between us stretches,
bends with breaks and flowswith outsourced rhythm. Undulating,
absconding, rudimentary linguistics
that fail my schema and imagery.
Outside the air bites with ferocity;
inside, my limbs weaken with misplaced
modifiers and the tangle of my heart
within your incisors.