Debridement

He looked so good last night but I knew I couldn't have him. It had been over a month since I saw him last, although the entire stretch of those weeks held an unfathomable amount of late night talks and stupid jokes, I had seemed to forget how intense my attraction for this person (insignificant, immeasurable) was. Tall and lean, dressed simply with his dark hair pulled to the side. He locked eyes with me and gave me a sly smile before turning away. He chose her, who although I feel terrible for thinking these thoughts, seems less than special to me. She is convenient, she is available, she is there. She is just there. But this is not about her. What is this about? The melodrama inside my head, I'm sure. I'm not certain about what I wanted out of what this could have been (maybe nothing, maybe everything), but what I got was a hopeful thought of the warmth of your simple company peeled from the inside of my skull and somehow tossed into the dry dirt. Stripped away like the debridement of something immobile and useless, I turned myself inside out again and shrugged to show how little I cared.

This is the first time I've truly appreciated the rain. Words were too much for me, the talking far too loud. I pulled up my hood and slipped on my worn leather boots covered in filth and liquor. I stepped outside without hesitation and began to walk, head down, watching the puddles run together. I became instantly soaked but for once had no thought or care about it. I stopped at the archway by the market. The path was blocked for construction. I slung my bag around my shoulder, climbed the fence, lept into a rather large puddle, and continued walking towards the union. I kept my eyes low as I walked and made sure to observe the reflection of the street lights as the rain drops rhythmically scattered to the ground. What a perfect thing this weather was for comfort. I had left seeking silence but the sound of the rain was like a warmth that no words would be able to provide me. Finally reaching the double doors, I gripped the wet handles and stepped inside, heading straight for my favorite corner: cushions, seclusion, and brick walls surrounding. Now I write.

It's not that I'm lonely. Well, I am I suppose, in a way. Loneliness is the whole of my being. Loneliness is who I am and who I always will be, and I embrace it like an old friend. But I do not wish to find anyone special. I'm not looking for a completion of myself or an "other half". I just feel as though I'm missing out on exploring the world around me simply because I have no one to do it with. Why is it that the comfort of love has become the final "You Are Here" place mark on the map? I don't understand the satisfaction of a steady, prolonged relationship with another person and I question whether I ever will. I thrive and flourish under the excitement of the unknown, the what-could-happen. It seems everyone around me is content with the answers they've already found and have no interest in asking any more questions. How can this be when my body is buzzing with curiosity?

Haze

I have this daydream, this hazy scene in my head: I walk through the front door of a party and you're there. You're standing there, just across the room, loosely clinging to a beer bottle, leaning against the wall in your leather jacket only partially committed to a conversation with a circle of strangers. You glance up when the door opens. Our eyes meet. You want me. I'm not sure who you're going to be for me or how my emotions will self-destruct for you, but I know I want you too. We move towards each other through the crowd, like a scene from some movie we would both hate. We perch in a corner together the entire night, ignoring all and any others hopeful for some sort of conversation spark with us. You, scanning the room as you speak to me and me, willing my eyes to pierce through your beam of conversational concentration. You invite me out for a cigarette again and again, not because you're craving the nicotine, but because you're looking for an excuse to be alone with me, with nothing but the chill of the wind between our carefully and cautiously thought-out words. I touch your arm lightly between conversation, willing you to remember the night outside of the bar, hoping something different will happen tonight. I watch your lips move as you speak of your passion for your most recently discovered piece of literature, suddenly realizing that I've never wanted to feel anyone's lips pressed against my own more than I do at this very moment. You lean into me and I am lost in your scent. I'm fighting to stay conscious; to laugh when you laugh, to respond when you leave a question hanging in the air, but it's hopeless and I close my eyes and let you engulf me. You lean closer yet and I realize you're looking straight at me now, waiting for something to happen. I step closer and close my eyes again, so ready to be tangled up in you.

The haze disappears.

I am awake and hyper-aware of my utter and complete hopelessness.