I Will Lie Awake
Last night was in one bothersome and most excellent.
I got to watch Men's Figure Skating for a few wonderful hours.
Of tight velvet pants and very fit men's figure skating asses.
That's always nice.
Oh, and spaghetti.
The wind started picking up and outside the windows set into the walls you could see snow.
So I talked to some people.
You could hear the wind howling and beating against the walls.
With those insecurities that whisper secrets into your ears. Seeing out the corners of eyes,
Though I felt perfectly contented.
Eight grade stories of infatuation.
And marveling at the fact that I can hold someone's hand in a room full of people without feeling the need to hide my face with blankets and jacket sleeves.
It's kind of this fleeting feeling of perfection, being that comfortable in flashes. Just flashes.
There are more things I need to work on though.
Only thing that would have made me more capable of curling into a little furry ball and purring would have been Elliot Smith songs while getting list in the lick of the fire.
But instead there were the odes to Mr. Copeland's drug habit.
And banjos.
I'll never go to a dance ever.
Ah, I got home at 1:30.
Some part of me feels complete.
The part with the check list I think.
Pushing the curfew.
I got to watch Men's Figure Skating for a few wonderful hours.
Of tight velvet pants and very fit men's figure skating asses.
That's always nice.
Oh, and spaghetti.
The wind started picking up and outside the windows set into the walls you could see snow.
So I talked to some people.
You could hear the wind howling and beating against the walls.
With those insecurities that whisper secrets into your ears. Seeing out the corners of eyes,
Though I felt perfectly contented.
Eight grade stories of infatuation.
And marveling at the fact that I can hold someone's hand in a room full of people without feeling the need to hide my face with blankets and jacket sleeves.
It's kind of this fleeting feeling of perfection, being that comfortable in flashes. Just flashes.
There are more things I need to work on though.
Only thing that would have made me more capable of curling into a little furry ball and purring would have been Elliot Smith songs while getting list in the lick of the fire.
But instead there were the odes to Mr. Copeland's drug habit.
And banjos.
I'll never go to a dance ever.
Ah, I got home at 1:30.
Some part of me feels complete.
The part with the check list I think.
Pushing the curfew.