Thursday, September 11, 2008

I'm tired to the bone.

I breathe you out and I breathe you in and I breathe you out and I brush your hair from in front of your eyes and encourage it to kindly stay behind your ears because, as beautiful as your hair is, your eyes at least look back and I see my reflection in your pupils and I'm taken aback. I am caught off-guard by my presence in your eyes. It's not that I don't want to be there, or that I am surprised to be there, or that I don't deserve to be there, but it's more like...okay, maybe it is that I don't deserve to be there.

Maybe I shouldn't be here. I look around your living room and it's incredible. Immaculate, really---there's framed posters on a wall and a great couch beneath us and a coffee table that has some DVDs that you rented and, presumably, are about to take back to the store and I can't quite make out the titles in the dark, but I forget trying once you slip your fingers through mine and they're intertwined like a subway station and I think: this is what it's supposed to be like.

But I don't think it. I say it. Outloud.

"This is what it's supposed to be like."

And you ask what I just said, because you probably didn't hear it well enough to understand it, and it was just a weird thing to say anyway, and I'm sure you're taken aback and I don't respond. So you ask again.

"What did you say?"

And all I can think is to lie.

"Nothing," I say. And while I'm a bad enough liar to not be able to convince anyone of anything, you give me the benefit of the doubt, and I think that I fall in love with you just a little bit.

That night, after we fall asleep, I have a dream. I have a dream of you and of me and we're standing somewhere in a wide, expansive wilderness and I can't tell if it's a desert or the Arctic or if we're on a boat or what, but we're looking out to the world and we're there. We're coming. You and me. On the front of whatever craft we find ourselves upon, and you look at me, and you whisper something so softly that I can't hear, but I can read your lips:

"This is what it's supposed to be like," they say. And you're right.

I wake up to a startled jump from you and I ask you if everything is okay.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine. I just...I just woke up for a second there. Sorry."

"Do you want me to go?" I ask, hoping that I already know the answer.

You roll over onto your other side so you're facing me and you look at me and and you look at me and you look at me and I get more nervous than I feel comfortable admitting and you just keep looking.

You don't say anything. But you do kiss me sweetly and you wrap your arms around me tighter than they've been all evening, and I take that as a "no."

I hope I'm right.

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