(no subject)
I don't care if I never get to "have" her again, in that hot and sweaty, tangled up, persistently trying to move through levels of physical pleasure into ecstacy way. I don't care if I should not write her poetry, or about her, and post it for the world to see. I don't care that I should not give her music, just books, because that's a bit less personal. I will not do the things I should not do, if I know that I should not do them, if she helps me not to do them.
I am just happy, happy that I make her laugh, that I got to hear her laugh (it is infectious), watch the whole fucking city light up with her smile, have her wrestle me down onto the floor of my favorite bar in two seconds flat. I care that she kept her arm around me as we walked in the fog, and it was cold. And even when it was not. I care that I grabbed her hand as we ran across the street, and then when she lit my cigarettes, always ready there with the lighter in her pocket, taking it out faster than me. How she lit her cigarettes and passed them to me, how we giggled running up the hill, getting out of breath, and then how she would not sit on the wet ground, didn't want to get her jeans dirty, and I tried to push her over, but she just held on, her muscles, her strength, her breath, the smell of her cologne, and us, all platonic and sweet, and talking talking talking until delirious. And flowers on cars, and swings, and slapping each other playfully, and boots, and my tight new leather pants (I think I bought them wanting to look hot for her) and how I never even look at anyone else when she is there.
It's the best feeling, and it lives inside of me. I am just all too happy she brought it out for me again, to live.
I am just happy, happy that I make her laugh, that I got to hear her laugh (it is infectious), watch the whole fucking city light up with her smile, have her wrestle me down onto the floor of my favorite bar in two seconds flat. I care that she kept her arm around me as we walked in the fog, and it was cold. And even when it was not. I care that I grabbed her hand as we ran across the street, and then when she lit my cigarettes, always ready there with the lighter in her pocket, taking it out faster than me. How she lit her cigarettes and passed them to me, how we giggled running up the hill, getting out of breath, and then how she would not sit on the wet ground, didn't want to get her jeans dirty, and I tried to push her over, but she just held on, her muscles, her strength, her breath, the smell of her cologne, and us, all platonic and sweet, and talking talking talking until delirious. And flowers on cars, and swings, and slapping each other playfully, and boots, and my tight new leather pants (I think I bought them wanting to look hot for her) and how I never even look at anyone else when she is there.
It's the best feeling, and it lives inside of me. I am just all too happy she brought it out for me again, to live.