20120622 you

I love you. How can I? I love you. I do. You, the single entity that will make my heart smile and take away the cold hard fear of the endless quiet night. You. Cow eyes. I love you. I don't know how, I do know why, and I do.

20120608 the things you say

20120608 the things you say

snap. snap. snap. snap. i miss you when you leave.

20120601 the things you say part 8

the things you say part 8

Out of the blue you called me.  I was in the quiet room with the white haired guy, moustache, pale grey suit. You know the one. He looks as though he may have egg or spunk on his upper lip. Something rests there, amidst the bristling hairs, congeals. I never tire, you know, of looking at him and imagining. He thinks I am listening, all engaged, hanging on to his every word. But no. No way.  Instead I am focusing on his mouth and wondering all the time about what goes in and fills that black moist space.

I sit and stare and ponder and I see my hand held device, just there on the table, to the right of me, still within reach, but too far to get  hold of in a nonchalant way. It flashes and jerks and I want to grab it but look on listlessly instead. If I extend my hand, straighten my arm, he will notice and it will all become such an issue, won’t it. Why is it so important to me that I get that, that I yank it towards me, so expectant, so hopeful, still so hopeful, what am I wanting, expecting, hoping for. Questions galore, nosey fucker, fuck off.

He is so busy, so sure of his important self, so rattling on and thinking he’s helping that the jerking slips by, unseen except by me. Yours truly. I catch the flashing numbers. My heart, kaboom kaboom, skips a beat. Oh could it be could it be.

I must wait. Grey spunk guy chatters on. I notice the grain of the table is fake, brushed on like this and like that, too real to be real. I want to run my hand across it, feel its flatness. I stroke the soft velour of the cushion on this hard backed chair instead. I notice the fibres one by one. The touch of softness on fingertips reminds me of love and the heart skips again and then crashes. It is the way of love, such hope, such despair, such hope such despair all so possible, impossible, possible, impossible. A train. I am on it, whatever. 

It’s the fact.  I was expecting you. How could that be no rhyme nor reason no words spoken barely a gesture.  In the bursts of informal sandwiched between the ‘how can we step across this formal barrier, this set up, this established conflict between right and proper and desire’, in the bursts just yesterday that flew out, random, intimate, shared until we stood and wondered at how to retract, step back. Or did we? Was it just me? No. I have been expecting you. We seek each other out for moments, in this the most uncomfortable of places where there is nowhere to rest, where public seating is harsh wood, cold metal, where the corridors go on and on and lead nowhere, nowhere private, nowhere restful. Here, we speak to each other by speaking to others. We make ourselves known in statements that could be made to anyone. We meet. There is no resting place.  No place to simply be. We snatch it. You sit occasionally for moments at a table I occupy and talking to all we talk to each other. Would you stop anyway, without me there, am I the pull, the draw.  I think I am.  I think the interest is real is mutual is hidden but flickering real. Or is just that I listen to you so hard. Hear it all. Hear you breathe. Feel the change as you move between relaxation, high stress, playfulness, concern. I can listen hard.  I do listen hard. Does that mean I imagine?

My time in the silent room not bothering to listen to the self-importance of another, came to an end. Time had passed by, it always does. I smiled and nodded and said thank you, helpful yes yes most helpful, it is all clearer now and I know what to do, some of what to do, yes I will do it, of course I will do it, I must, I know, there is no choice, none at all. Smiling and leaving. Walking backwards, sincere, smiling, until I can spin around the corner and out of direct sight. Where can I go to look at this. I see a book upon a table in the corridor and look down at it, I make as though I am interested in it, I turn its pages, bend forward, so interested. In my hand, my device sits snug, I see the numbers, they are yours. This is new. A step over.  A new way.  I had no idea you knew my numbers. It had never occurred to me that one day you might use them, like this. My heart is soaring. Under my scrutiny this says you feel it too you want more contact too. It says that we have the opposite of resistance to one another. We have trails that want to mesh and embrace and when I pull away from you from where you are my trails feel snapped, lost, they spend some time, days seeking the others that they slip into so easily, they are busy looking, missing, mourning. I think you feel it too. Hidden, formal, out of view, but human. In there, under this, human.