what i plan to do stands before me just as unsure as i am. hip cocked, head tilted, arms crossed. eyes down, gently biting my thumb.
because what if you really like me? you don't know me that well, but maybe you want to the same way i wanted so badly to know you. what if you want to make it work, over that distance and that time and the lack of my kisses all down your bruised back? i would love to have someone and i would like to have you.
but there's this too: god, who the hell am i anymore? i need to get back to fiction, to family, to blending voices together. to working my fingers so hard that when they touch something soft- these sheets, your skin- there's heat and wind and that kind of comfort that you only know right when you fall asleep. this body has been used and loved and handled with an uneasy caution, pressed and folded and laid out again. and this intellect used to find ways to entertain itself; it glorified thought, bathed in rationality, relished in expression. i used to give something.
so i don't know if i'm in any position to love or be loved. i don't know what i can give and that wouldn't be fair.
my thoughts end here. i'll see you tomorrow.