Nylon Nightmares, in between your sheets, or mine?

In that clearing we sit and we wait.
My body is laid out for all to see with my head sitting in your lap as you sit indian style. Stark naked, our skin compliments each other's. My slightly tanner to your longer leaner frame. My hair is a dark momento of notice across your pale thighs as your long fingers grace the contours of my face as you stroke the curve of my cheekbones and hollow of my eyes, over and over and over and over again. The trees cast shadows but we're not in deep enough so the rays are creating rainbows of the polish on my hands as they rest at my sides. My eyes are closed but every so often, I open them to the shock of sun just so I can take stock of the surroundings, of the facts. Every time I do the circle of dark men that rings us raises their guns and mentally prepares themselves for pulling the trigger, only I never leave my eyes open long enough for them to take perfect aim on me, on you.

I reach my hand up and feel the line of your jaw, the stubble of forgotten facial hair. My hand reaches upwards, brushing your cheek.
You have the softest skin, like touching a butterfly.

Birds of a feather flock together.

That's how that old saying goes.. right?
Or wrong?

Questions of morals always come into play and these days I'm wondering if I'm the only one left with some. I can feel the cold air circulating on my thigh as I sit in this too warm dorm room and try and figure out how the fuck I've managed to ruin this, again.

That weekend, curled up in your bed as you were at work. The sunlight pouring onto my body in waves. The brightness preventing me from sleep until I slid completely under your down comforter, my knees up to my neck. You kissed me before you left. Your arms leaning on my knees, your mouth meeting mine. It wasn't a deep kiss or a long kiss. A small little kiss, but oddly enough that's the only time I've ever been kissed like that. The only one I really savor. Your smell still lingers on my pillow even though it's been months since you've slept here. A month since we've spoken. The fact that I can recognize the time periods makes me sick to my stomach. I was packing my clothes last night and I found two of your sweaters. Two that I had bought for you. Two that you left here so you could have clean clothes.
That night, you had upset me and I turned on the cold water and stepped into your shower fully clothed. Freezing, I turned off the water and laid in the bottom of the shower in the dark. For how long? I don't know. Not long enough to kill but long enough for my skin to be complete ice.
My mind keeps going in circles, trying to recognize the downfall of Prague.
And now, now I can see it.
That book, the book that spelled out my vulnerability. I should have never told you where I hid it. I shouldn't have let you read it. But I did. And I trusted you. But not enough, not enough to let you inside my head and you couldn't control me. You were never angry, or jealous. Always patronizing. Always safe.
I was settling. I haven't been sixteen for a long time and that's the girl who you were yearning for. The running girl of my youth, quick to smile and laugh. Quick to bend to your will.

Practice your detachment on someone else.

You're always going to be that lost little boy tearing off wings.

Two and a half hours of dull landscape, I miss those rocky hills out your window..

My legs are crossed on this worn out chair
and I can feel every fiber scraping the skin,
leaving edges and memories engraved, which
I will rediscover years later unaware of
where they came from and how long they’ve
been lingering. It’s Saturday and you’ve gone
home yesterday. Icy roads and mix cds I
constantly make accompany you on the hours
long drive. I’d like to rake my fingers through
your hair but you’ve cut it all off and I am still
too far north. I can taste the sour oranges in
my mouth, whispering to my taste buds as
I yearn for your warm body next to mine,
shedding its warmth into my folds of Antarctica.
A week goes by on fast forward and I’m
still in reverse. My limbs backtracking to that
place between your sheets. I can feel your breath
moving my fine hairs as you sleep. Your
arms around me with my legs tangled backwards,
in-between and through the blueprints of yours.

It’s six pm and you’re placing sticks on the
hood of that blue Sunfire. I can feel the prick
behind my eyes but I smile anyway. You place
your palms, your long fingers, up against the glass.
I can’t hold the tears back anymore so I put the car in reverse and
I back out and drive away.

The sky is dark and lonely under this cloud of cover.
I’m waiting.

Stay here touching you, touching the lines in your eye.

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is it's own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.