Unsent Letter to A.B.G.
Dearest A.:
Yet again these thoughts haunt me; yet again I don't know what to do with them. Other times before I have been snowed under by them, so the give off the smell of a known enemy. Still, it feels like the first time; it always does.
I look at you and I can only think of your mouth panting on mine. You talk to me and your voice chafes my ears making my whole body stand on end. You touch me and stiffness takes hold of me, and I'm too awkward to breathe, and I just shy away. What wouldn't I give to own your mouth, to drink your voice, to touch you back! I long for you to fall asleep beside me, to wake up with me. What wouldn't I forsake in exchange!
It must be beautiful to feel my chest against your back, to take shelter on your neck, to clutch you to me as I get drunk with the smell of your skin, with your breath, with you. How wonderful it must be to softly bite your lips, to caress that mole below your cheek, so tenderly that I almost don't; what a quest to push your head back and kiss my way down to your navel, where I would gladly live all my days.
But what am I to you? Something more. Something more, you said. Well, I don't really know what that means. Not just a hello-goodbye acquaintance? Not your regular commonplace buddy? Not your ordinary all-purpose mate? Not just your friend? Too long the road and too grueling the journey; I've already been up that hill, and once you're at the top it's only down slope from there.
Such curious things, confessions. How do your peers manage to make one on this matter? Some cold lives they must live; it's not in their nature to confide. Where did yours come from? What did you mean 'something more', you fascinating unknown creature? I like to think of you as one of them. It makes those two words special. It makes the moment you spoke them special. It makes me feel special.
Did you somehow hurt me, you asked. How can I say you did? In what deluded world do I have the right to blame you? How can I be so selfish as to say out loud what I scorn myself for thinking?
So far yours,
Me.
Yet again these thoughts haunt me; yet again I don't know what to do with them. Other times before I have been snowed under by them, so the give off the smell of a known enemy. Still, it feels like the first time; it always does.
I look at you and I can only think of your mouth panting on mine. You talk to me and your voice chafes my ears making my whole body stand on end. You touch me and stiffness takes hold of me, and I'm too awkward to breathe, and I just shy away. What wouldn't I give to own your mouth, to drink your voice, to touch you back! I long for you to fall asleep beside me, to wake up with me. What wouldn't I forsake in exchange!
It must be beautiful to feel my chest against your back, to take shelter on your neck, to clutch you to me as I get drunk with the smell of your skin, with your breath, with you. How wonderful it must be to softly bite your lips, to caress that mole below your cheek, so tenderly that I almost don't; what a quest to push your head back and kiss my way down to your navel, where I would gladly live all my days.
But what am I to you? Something more. Something more, you said. Well, I don't really know what that means. Not just a hello-goodbye acquaintance? Not your regular commonplace buddy? Not your ordinary all-purpose mate? Not just your friend? Too long the road and too grueling the journey; I've already been up that hill, and once you're at the top it's only down slope from there.
Such curious things, confessions. How do your peers manage to make one on this matter? Some cold lives they must live; it's not in their nature to confide. Where did yours come from? What did you mean 'something more', you fascinating unknown creature? I like to think of you as one of them. It makes those two words special. It makes the moment you spoke them special. It makes me feel special.
Did you somehow hurt me, you asked. How can I say you did? In what deluded world do I have the right to blame you? How can I be so selfish as to say out loud what I scorn myself for thinking?
So far yours,
Me.