(no subject)
right now, I'd give anything to feel wanted, loved, appreciated; physically. with an attentive, obsequious fawning that only one as desperately romantic as I could portray. I'm tired of being so perfectly alone all the time. I've met a few people recently, special people; as special as an exoskeleton of blood, skin, and water can get. one, no less, a boy. but I feel the cycle stalling, retreating, singing like skipping stones over stirred waters. people get attracted to the enigma, like moths to a venerate flame, like concupiscent lusters at the feet of an Amazon. believe it to be something more. discover it's not. and move on. the saddest stroke against my life is that at the heart of everything, there is absolutely nothing.
I've given up on certain people. I feel certain people have given up on me. I no longer care for my best friend. my phone hasn't rang in almost two days. my body pillow is warmed by sodic kisses. my arms, wet with caustic tears. somewhere out there is a lonely woman or an intelligent boy praying for providentia via Versailles. and somewhere out there is a pubescent, teenage gal whose words I stole to make this journal. I'm in love with this girl that works at banana republic. [prose break]
The summer nights were sultry and soft. we spent them hand-kissing and storytelling. putting our hands to our breasts and divining each others' heartbeat. we were fragile then. we were vulnerable; capable of being physically or emotionally wounded.(webster's) holding hands above the sheets, feeling our blood and essence ebb in our entwined fingers - coarsing like kisses patient and impassioned as the flesh of the sun sinks into, and the foamy recission of the evening tides return to, the sea. we were the wolf moon and dwarven star dancing before the slumbering form of man, in the heliacal closed curtain hedonism of vespertilia - flowing as one. we throbbed in unison for a life of passion and each prayed to god for the same, mindfucking fairy tales and bruising our knees on rainbow clouds and burning our fingertips on comet tails chasing down myths and magnificence.
And we found each other.
I think she's dominican. and I am frightened air.
I've given up on certain people. I feel certain people have given up on me. I no longer care for my best friend. my phone hasn't rang in almost two days. my body pillow is warmed by sodic kisses. my arms, wet with caustic tears. somewhere out there is a lonely woman or an intelligent boy praying for providentia via Versailles. and somewhere out there is a pubescent, teenage gal whose words I stole to make this journal. I'm in love with this girl that works at banana republic. [prose break]
The summer nights were sultry and soft. we spent them hand-kissing and storytelling. putting our hands to our breasts and divining each others' heartbeat. we were fragile then. we were vulnerable; capable of being physically or emotionally wounded.(webster's) holding hands above the sheets, feeling our blood and essence ebb in our entwined fingers - coarsing like kisses patient and impassioned as the flesh of the sun sinks into, and the foamy recission of the evening tides return to, the sea. we were the wolf moon and dwarven star dancing before the slumbering form of man, in the heliacal closed curtain hedonism of vespertilia - flowing as one. we throbbed in unison for a life of passion and each prayed to god for the same, mindfucking fairy tales and bruising our knees on rainbow clouds and burning our fingertips on comet tails chasing down myths and magnificence.
And we found each other.
I think she's dominican. and I am frightened air.