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.