burn

I poured kerosene all over the bridge between us. The bridge I helped rebuild so strong. The bridge that was getting shorter and shorter, pulling us closer. I pour kerosene all over it, then I threw the match and watched it burn. She was on the other side yelling something at me. “It’s ok. But I was just rolling with the punches. You know this isn’t just my fault.” Then the flames ate her words and hid her face.

“Do you know how many times you’ve brought up Blake on this trip?” My dad asked me.

“I know, I know!” I answered. We were taking a cab home from dinner the last night of our vacation together.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Say it, say it!” I told him, needing to hear it again. Needing to hear what my best friend had told me.

“There’s nothing to say.” He said simply.

She’d been sleeping over, we’d been holding each other. “I know this blurs the lines,” she said, “I don’t want to hurt you again and I don’t want to be hurt.” I thought I could keep my emotions in check. I thought we could have this. Somewhere between platonic and romantic. No sex. As Jaden said to me when I called her for advice, “sex complicates everything anyway.” Apparently, so do feelings. Maybe I could sleep with other people and just love her. The thought crossed my mind.

I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a date one night. She was so excited for me, like a Jewish mother who’s kid hadn’t had a date for years.  It was weird. It seemed fake. What had I wanted? Her to be disappointed? To fake a “oh that’s nice.” I’m not sure. I guess I just didn’t want to hide my date and see how she’d react. Well, I hated how she reacted. And I countered with that kerosene. She was on vacation with her family. It was probably cruel of me. I know it hurt her. I know it hurt me. Better to burn that bridge than watch it disappear and just merge though, right? I told her, “You don’t know what you mean to me. I know this is my fault. I’m sorry.” Burn baby, burn. 

Holding back

She looked positively miserable when I walked out her door yesterday. I didn’t feel good about that. I did, however, like the feel of her tears falling in my hair. Not because I want her to hurt, but because I want her to care. I don’t like being vulnerable, but I think she likes seeing my humanity. 

I wish it were different. I wish she had more confidence. I wish she were over her ex. I wish I could get more entwined without getting hurt. I wish she could see her own beauty. I wish I weren’t so incredibly attracted to her. I wish I didn’t have to walk away. I wish she weren’t leaving. Wishes in one hand, shit in the other – see which fills up first.

I didn’t wake up thinking about her today, which was good. I woke up thinking about what day of the week it was, which was odd. I keep replaying that last bit over in my head. My head on her chest. Her hand taking mine. Her tears in my hair. Feeling like I could sit with her like that forever. Her limp, unsure lips against mine.  That look on her face as she stared straight ahead when I walked out the door.

Everyone says this is better. The right decision. Better for me. When will I be able to stop holding back? 

Alone

Woke up thinking about her. Not a good sign.  No – I woke up twice thinking about her. Once at 2:25am, thinking about texting her to come over since she was probably still awake; again when I woke up later that morning.  Is that why I’m in a funk?

Why did I blow off that other girl?  I was tired and feeling off. Did it have to do with her – the one I woke up thinking about? Is that why I feel this way? I can’t tell.

Walking home that night with my arms around myself, I felt the snugness of my jacket around my shoulders as I walked past her street.  The snugness of my jacket, the tightness of my belt are reminders that I am… alone.

She’s leaving at the end of the week. Or so I thought. Maybe another week, another month. Maybe gone and back again. Too long to get attached. Too long to be confused, be torn apart, be fucked. My heart says I want to go sleep in her bed. My head says stay in my own.

Oh yes

“Is this for you? It’s not for me.”  Oh, someone who likes more than to use me as a rubbing post*! Wait, what do we… oh yes.

This is what sex is supposed to be like. Her hand between my legs. Mouths on each others’ bodies.  Yes, wrestle with me to pull off my shirt, no hers, to open my legs, to take off her panties.

The smell of her hair.  How is it that the smell of a girl’s hair gets into my pillows, my clothes, my body?  That direct olfaction connection from molecule to brain to groin is intoxicating.  Her wetness makes me ache.

No I can’t just lay here without touching her, I won’t come that way, and that is what she wants, isn’t it? Unlike the last one*, who collapsed when she was done, always.

I don’t want her to stop me when I make her feel good. Why has she let me get this far? A fuck is never just a fuck.  Am I more than just convenient? I want to know. I want. I want. I want her clit in my mouth. I want her to punish me. I don’t want her to leave.

*I had an ex who liked grinding way more than touching me with her mouth or hands. She also wasn’t very reciprocating in the sack.