(no subject)
I couldn't make the tears come when I said goodbye to you.
I'll always regret that. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.
But if it helps, I couldn't stop them when I got home. I didn't sleep at all that night.
I don't miss home, and I'm scared by how quickly I've come to that conclusion and how comfortable I am with it. I mean christ I've known for a long time that all I ever needed was to get out, get anywhere, get all the way past the Rockies and find myself in pacific standard time. I'm oddly at ease with the fact that this now means I can never call anyone anymore, at least not anyone that I haven't already had 3 and 4 and 5 AM conversations with because of some idea that my mother put in my head when I was little that it's rude to call anyone that late.
And the last thing I want to do is be rude.
Especially after you were so nice to me. You would wait with infinite patience while I tried to think of an answer to "What are you thinking right now?", not even much an answer that was as simply, delicately, unintentionally beautiful as yours always were, but any answer at all because all I was ever thinking about was you, your curves, your eyes, big and bashful and brown and soft, like melted choclate dark leather cinnamon and sable, about the scar on your forehead, about how I never liked to not be touching you but I was too polite to do it all the time, about how every time I walk into a room with you in it I have to duck into a different room to catch my breath, how it feels like when you round a corner on a motorcycle too fast and you don't know what's still holding you up, about you speaking french to me under a streetlight at 2 AM and not knowning what you were saying but falling harder with every word, about retracing every step you made, about letters and mailboxes and feet raw from running barefoot around your block and softer worlds, about drawing orange suns, about lyrics from memory and sea air and smirnoff, about brake lights that you only notice are out as someone drives away, about how one song came to define my whole summer
But now I might have to be rude, so please tell me if I'm putting too much on you. Tell me if I make you uncomfortable, because that is really the last thing I ever want to do.
I have so little of a home left to go to anymore. That, I think, is why I miss so little about it.
I want to make you my new home.
And tonight I will go and drink more than I should, the same thing I did when the night I thought I had lost you, the night you told me "I understand."
Please, understand me tonight.
I'll always regret that. For what it's worth, I'm sorry.
But if it helps, I couldn't stop them when I got home. I didn't sleep at all that night.
I don't miss home, and I'm scared by how quickly I've come to that conclusion and how comfortable I am with it. I mean christ I've known for a long time that all I ever needed was to get out, get anywhere, get all the way past the Rockies and find myself in pacific standard time. I'm oddly at ease with the fact that this now means I can never call anyone anymore, at least not anyone that I haven't already had 3 and 4 and 5 AM conversations with because of some idea that my mother put in my head when I was little that it's rude to call anyone that late.
And the last thing I want to do is be rude.
Especially after you were so nice to me. You would wait with infinite patience while I tried to think of an answer to "What are you thinking right now?", not even much an answer that was as simply, delicately, unintentionally beautiful as yours always were, but any answer at all because all I was ever thinking about was you, your curves, your eyes, big and bashful and brown and soft, like melted choclate dark leather cinnamon and sable, about the scar on your forehead, about how I never liked to not be touching you but I was too polite to do it all the time, about how every time I walk into a room with you in it I have to duck into a different room to catch my breath, how it feels like when you round a corner on a motorcycle too fast and you don't know what's still holding you up, about you speaking french to me under a streetlight at 2 AM and not knowning what you were saying but falling harder with every word, about retracing every step you made, about letters and mailboxes and feet raw from running barefoot around your block and softer worlds, about drawing orange suns, about lyrics from memory and sea air and smirnoff, about brake lights that you only notice are out as someone drives away, about how one song came to define my whole summer
But now I might have to be rude, so please tell me if I'm putting too much on you. Tell me if I make you uncomfortable, because that is really the last thing I ever want to do.
I have so little of a home left to go to anymore. That, I think, is why I miss so little about it.
I want to make you my new home.
And tonight I will go and drink more than I should, the same thing I did when the night I thought I had lost you, the night you told me "I understand."
Please, understand me tonight.