March 12th, 2007
I couldn’t sleep last night. That’s the worst, isn’t it? Lying there, wide awake, with nothing to do except think about how you REALLY should be sleeping right now and how tired you’re going to be in the morning. I know it happens to everyone.
I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about Adam; missing him and the idea of him. Missing having someone to care about like that, to wonder about his days and to leave little insignificant surprises on his desk. I was thinking about how absolutely pathetically desperate I am for that connection. However awful it seems, it almost doesn’t matter who the boy is. That’s terrible, but true. Recently I’ve been falling fast and hard for just about anyone who will reciprocate it, no matter how serious they are about starting something.
Anyways, I wrote three little poems/scribbles/whatevers. Scribbled them in my food journal, which has been woefully neglected recently save for lovesick poems and bold “fuck you”s.
I
I came to you for your long hugs and willingness,
Your twisted sheets and floppy Hair.
I came to you, let you so far in.
We saw what’s real, together.
But now I’ve forgotten
What is real?
This ripping, aching sob?
This jealousy, regret, sadness?
Nothing is real anymore,
not even the floppy hair.
II
We shared.
We shared our favorites, our dreams, our hopes.
We whispered randoms until we fell asleep,
Lips still forming.
We were real, silly and quite weird.
I couldn’t sleep last night. That’s the worst, isn’t it? Lying there, wide awake, with nothing to do except think about how you REALLY should be sleeping right now and how tired you’re going to be in the morning. I know it happens to everyone.
I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about Adam; missing him and the idea of him. Missing having someone to care about like that, to wonder about his days and to leave little insignificant surprises on his desk. I was thinking about how absolutely pathetically desperate I am for that connection. However awful it seems, it almost doesn’t matter who the boy is. That’s terrible, but true. Recently I’ve been falling fast and hard for just about anyone who will reciprocate it, no matter how serious they are about starting something.
Anyways, I wrote three little poems/scribbles/whatevers. Scribbled them in my food journal, which has been woefully neglected recently save for lovesick poems and bold “fuck you”s.
I
I came to you for your long hugs and willingness,
Your twisted sheets and floppy Hair.
I came to you, let you so far in.
We saw what’s real, together.
But now I’ve forgotten
What is real?
This ripping, aching sob?
This jealousy, regret, sadness?
Nothing is real anymore,
not even the floppy hair.
II
We shared.
We shared our favorites, our dreams, our hopes.
We whispered randoms until we fell asleep,
Lips still forming.
We were real, silly and quite weird.
We stopped all that;
It meant nothing to one.
We stopped all that.
III
The cold walk, the sweatpants the anticipation.
The warm room, always music.
The warm boy, the warm voice, the warm guitar.
Touchy soft floppy swishy tangled legs and muffled.
Accepted.
“What do you need?”
ridiculous line drawings, funny only to two.
Two on the inside, two on the inside
Come back! I think we have the same mind…
Calling each other by our first names, our line drawings.
By whispers and gasps
And letting go, sinking into each other, falling,
calm loose soft sleep.
Morning glasses, music, smiles, classes, you made me so late again.
Repeat.
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