The last vestige of old-world elegance's Journal

missing him so badly

07:01pm 19/04/2004

mood: longing

music: the best thing--savage garden

Kerouac has eaten my grammar

Time—always time to spare when I don’t want or need there to be. Like today—having nothing to write and no class to go to (strikeout, insert “attend”), I sit with my right shoulder to a slight-shiny paneled wall (molding running parallel to shoulders, widespaced vertical bars five feet along but equal to my outstretched hand, and my cold stomach has already accepted its chocolate glazed doughnut something-gift from a Subaru-blinded father (why, old man, when you know a Civic is just as good), and it is asking for more, never satisfied even when my figure, never slight to begin with, bulges out at the waist in a hideous mockery of pregnancy. We conclude that our first children will be named Sylvan and Mint Viscous.

In all these far-between corners of campus I still see some of the same, over and over, like the few there, with one short redclad who befriends and seems bored. And more of the same, though my lookalike seems to have supplanted his. Reading, writing music, some new faces draw my attention. In all those gestures he is present, in a rip curl shirt poring over a thick book (what is it? But he marks every few pages with a tenpack ballpoint pen), and this other taps a foot (right, up/down, if left comes foot will wag sideways), and this maybecool skinny/not American girl (such is the way of these American girls, who seem skinny and suave but really do we know), she’s reading nutrition information on a bag of potato chips as her friend searches for reason in the ceiling tiles. Such is the way of things, and I remark it to my rolled and somehow never-compliant gut though it doesn’t talk back. More talk, or else less talk equalling less flab! I desire the body but it is resistant, too much a match for my decayed self-will. Lust and gluttony are my sins of choice. I eat too much and do not exercise, walk even (preferring the company of my computer), but again the sex--! Always the sex!

Celibate now with the dark distance, yes and now almost time, and sweet when it comes. We talk about it all and I kiss him deep longtimes. And always comes talk of wedding—and cannot wait. Just want the gift of touch sleeping together, so sweet that night in August (no, bittersweet, a bittersweet month save for fewdays) when you know I lost him again—again! but we still fell sleeping in my bed after, because I, he, needed the comfort and we had one spot of calm in the chaos—we held and knew throughout the longdays between then and final rightness. A process, it was a process, something that had to happen to prove finally that what we had was right and pure-right, remember the in-between day of allday movies blowing their minds and he/I lying on the floor curled together, that it was right. I still remember the shorts orange-soft, tar and flame holes here, here, here, and here folded over one foot I touch mischievously and suddenly am stopped by a fierce kiss. But no—I have the days mixed up. Order doesn’t matter so much as what happened though, except for the milestones. Yes. What is better than the way he moves and breathes? Fire shot through and please—please—

Teens now, soon single digits and beyond that a zero, sweet zero like an oh, do you miss the way we could sit and say nothing? Miss me? miss you and surprising bursts of tickle—and you blessed with such beautiful hands—size like mine and please believe you’re beautiful in these so-many ways I tell you now. The great honor is to know you and—thank god you’re alive because this world and my world would be so much darker without you. I love you, and the words when I say them contain so many memories and thank-yous, contain my entire being and those words always growing stronger, I know (thank you) that our lives together will be bright, beautiful and thank you in every moment I smile without realizing it, because of you.