one man can claim.
nearly every night since at least march fifteenth or so i have slept with him on or in or near me. i have drifted to the sound of his strange whistling smoker's breathing, have smiled to myself as he moaned in his sleep, have reached for him and cradled his head in my arms as he twitched from nightmares he never speaks about. only two weeks.
two weeks have passed in this fashion. i've discovered another world and crawled inside and zipped myself up tight and forsaken everything to stay here and sleep in the silence and the safety of being loved again, of being held for the first time, of being desired even as strangely as i am now. my hair has grown wild in its short length, an overly thick sort of ragged african pixie cut like i rose from the waters of the nile in robes of ropy weeds and glittering sand, from having his fingers in it at night, from tossing my head as we made love.
tonight is going to be the first i will sleep (if i do) without him. it is only a night, but it reminds me that it will not be the last, and the wide rift that burst open when he said "i'm sleeping over there tonight" was something unexpected and brutal so that i made no verbal response. i did not move to kiss him goodbye. i did not say goodnight. i did not turn my head for the normal flash of jealous rage as he kissed her goodnight after moving away from what i am sure he thinks is my anger.
i am foolish to hurt so much for one night, but it's the first of so many to come and i want to not have to think of them until they are here to wrap me in their bosom and choke me to sleep again. this just makes things worse, and i suppose better for the preparation of weeks, months, maybe years before i am able to sleep next to him again.
i ignored him to keep him from seeing what i knew was on my face: that i did not want him to go. that i need him here. that i can't sleep now without his heat, his hips under my arms, his neck angled in silent pleas for my mouth, his hair with its strange smell, his cigarette-smoke kisses at random moments. i could let him inside me when i think my body might tear apart from his ardor; i can cry on his shoulder, i can fit his cock into my mouth without remorse.
but i cannot say goodbye to him.
and i know this is very bad. this is bad.
i just couldn't let him see it. i didn't want him to know. i need him to go have fun and not think of my anger, my hurt, my ache. i am not his keeper and he is not mine, and i should keep that to hand and never forget it even when i am downstairs smiling at the irony of my pleasure in folding his freshly washed clothes only hours before he spills sharpie ink all over his jeans.
the only drawback to finding something to fill the spaces inside me is of course the knowledge and the proof that at some point i'm going to have to be empty again. at least for a while.
two weeks have passed in this fashion. i've discovered another world and crawled inside and zipped myself up tight and forsaken everything to stay here and sleep in the silence and the safety of being loved again, of being held for the first time, of being desired even as strangely as i am now. my hair has grown wild in its short length, an overly thick sort of ragged african pixie cut like i rose from the waters of the nile in robes of ropy weeds and glittering sand, from having his fingers in it at night, from tossing my head as we made love.
tonight is going to be the first i will sleep (if i do) without him. it is only a night, but it reminds me that it will not be the last, and the wide rift that burst open when he said "i'm sleeping over there tonight" was something unexpected and brutal so that i made no verbal response. i did not move to kiss him goodbye. i did not say goodnight. i did not turn my head for the normal flash of jealous rage as he kissed her goodnight after moving away from what i am sure he thinks is my anger.
i am foolish to hurt so much for one night, but it's the first of so many to come and i want to not have to think of them until they are here to wrap me in their bosom and choke me to sleep again. this just makes things worse, and i suppose better for the preparation of weeks, months, maybe years before i am able to sleep next to him again.
i ignored him to keep him from seeing what i knew was on my face: that i did not want him to go. that i need him here. that i can't sleep now without his heat, his hips under my arms, his neck angled in silent pleas for my mouth, his hair with its strange smell, his cigarette-smoke kisses at random moments. i could let him inside me when i think my body might tear apart from his ardor; i can cry on his shoulder, i can fit his cock into my mouth without remorse.
but i cannot say goodbye to him.
and i know this is very bad. this is bad.
i just couldn't let him see it. i didn't want him to know. i need him to go have fun and not think of my anger, my hurt, my ache. i am not his keeper and he is not mine, and i should keep that to hand and never forget it even when i am downstairs smiling at the irony of my pleasure in folding his freshly washed clothes only hours before he spills sharpie ink all over his jeans.
the only drawback to finding something to fill the spaces inside me is of course the knowledge and the proof that at some point i'm going to have to be empty again. at least for a while.