I wish I could

I am usually so fearless. I don't quite know what's stopping me. It's natural, it's normal, to want to end, to finish, find closure. To do it on my terms.

I want to do it and I find that soon I just might have to.

What I want.

It's hard to describe,  difficult to explain, mostly because I can barely comprehend it myself. I find myself thinking about you, these thoughts that inexplicably turn taboo. It's not about the way you make me feel when you devour me with your eyes, or the way your hand grabs roughly at mine while we're fighting for the most carnal type of power. No, the forbidden thoughts come from a much quieter place, a place where languid kisses turn into playful arguing about football; a place where the frantic push and pull of our bodies turns into fighting over the single-player PS3 controller.

But are you what I need?

For so long you've been what I wanted, someone available and able, someone who needed me in exactly the way I needed someone -- physically. No strings, just sex. Kisses sharef in elevators in the evening,  casual hugs in the morning with a cup of coffee to go. And I was absolutely okay with that. You scratched an itch, you calmed an urge and, best of all, I did the same for you.

No, scratch thay. The best part of it all was that you never wanted more.

But then we started making plans. Stupid, empty, imaginary plans, but plans nonetheless. Running away to far off places we've both always wanted to see. Weekends away to hide in cozy hotel rooms that overlook vistas we wish we could wake up to every day.

Like I said: stupid, empty, imaginary plans.

But last nighy happened. You made love to me long and slow in the dim moonlight. You looked at me and held my had and I was suddenly stripped bare, more naked than I had ever felt trapped in your gaze. You whispered how much you had missed this then confessed what you had never admitted before -- that you had missed me.

Coming undone had never been so intense before.

Then, like I said, came the camaraderie of football and video games; warm sticky skin against warm, sticky skin as we talked about adult things like bills and rent and travel for work. Conversation interspersed with kisses and caresses that didn't immediately scream, "fuck me blind!"

This qas new between me and you. But I can't say I didn't like it.

But the best of all was the sleep. No awkward pretense of cuddling, jusy the mutual, muted decision that we were done, turning in for the night on our respective sides of the bed with your feet nudging between mine just enough to say, "I'm here, and I'm glad you are, too."

Best sleep I've had in months.

Faking it

Sometimes it's the only way to get through the day.

When I walk through the doors and I see those people, the ones who I have come to hate through sheer proximity... I remind myself that I do good things here and I mean something to some of the people in this place. Then I plaster on a smile as best I can and go through the motions as I keep to myself as much as possible.

Fine lines

Fine lines are what define us: the relationships we have; who we were, are, wish to be, end up becoming.

Fine lines can be drawn in sand, taped across carpet, spoken in the passion of the moment.

Fine lines can be the difference between loving someone and wondering where everything went wrong.

Fine lines are a test: of strength, of endurance, of patience; of truth, of pride, of worth.

Fine lines are the failsafe, the hiding place, the door into Narnia or Hell.

Fine lines are laid out, respected, tested, crossed, and redrawn -- a vicious cycle of lines crisscrossed across lives until there are no longer any sides, just one giant, scribbled mess.

Life is the outcome of lines crossed, lines avoided, lines bleached out of memory by sunshine, lines washed away by torrid rains.

If there are no fine lines in life then there is no risk, no reward, no happiness or pain. That's what these lines do: they prove that we deserve everything that comes our way; they prove that we have earned the next day of our lives.

Don't talk to me about your fine lines, I know all about them.

I'd like to forget myself, just for an hour.

I want to forget what it's like to be me, have all the duties and responsibilities I have, leave behind all the complicated things and the people, too.

I am aware that what I would like is too much to ask for.

I have (re)learned that I much prefer Missy Martyr over Miss Moron.

Dying

"It's the same old story of love and glory that broke before it bent; I'm dying to live without you again."