As my favorite poet wrote "when I am with
you, we stay up all night, when you are away
I can not sleep."
Tonight, you are away. I lay here with my hand
grazing my crotch, starting at the stars the absence
of light has created on the dark ceiling above. An optical
illusion, comforting I suppose. You have been away
for most of my life.
I am recalling rapture, the memories of putting socks
in my shirt and staring at my nine year old body in the mirror,
the pain of actual breasts growing, my current breasts held only
by small muscle strings that could snap at any moment, or be released
by your hands, which would be worse.
I am alone all of the time. Sitting in crowded places, I am in jest,
more beautiful or less beautiful then I imagine myself to be. In this bed,
I am alone, physically. Every so often I turn over to kiss the pillow; sometimes I
even touch my tongue to the fabric. Your tongue is not there to greet
mine. Years ago I would punch myself whilst I slept in the absence of
you. Now, it is true, I hug myself instead. I hug myself and love myself
and know I won't leave until I die, and I'll be gone by then anyway.
Am I insane? Sometimes people stop me in the street to comment on
my beauty. Are they insane? Do they know how I am at night, crotch
grazing, thinking of pre-adolescence, making out with a pillow! These men
that desire me, do they know how I often imagine the small red school houses
of their mouths on my nipples, the rising and falling of breath on my sheets.
And whoa to the men that I desire. I can't even write of my thoughts for them
for fear of the paper burning up in unrequited, almost, sin.
I don't mind my moist pillows, my moist sheets. They are comfort where
comfort is lacking. They won't desert me. And to shorten the length of
my ramblings, to lengthen the hours of dreams, I will reconcile that one day
one of those men on the street will be able to replace you, run his fingers
gently along the lines of my life, listen to my inner voice, meet my kiss before
sleep.
