I wake slowly. Knowing that the extra twenty minutes I snooze my alarm to won’t matter. But I still do it. I pet the cat by my side. She rolls over my hand and goes back to sleep. I long to join her. But that extra 20 minutes was a dream. A hope which fades with every passing second. I have to get up.
It’s not a particularly hard job. Nor a harsh work environment. I’m just tired. So fucking tired of too short weekends and work weeks which drag away hours from those weekends.
It’s what fuels discontent. What makes every day a little worse. The accumulation of hours without end. Without purpose. Without hope of change.
As the day wears on, I am reminded of good things. Of love. Of hope. Of kissable lips. Of the dream of the brighter world. The sadness lingers like hot breathe against soft skin.
Quench my thirst on love. On desire. On dreams of far places, where I am becomes we. And what was becomes joy.
in the wake
of loving you
fear wars with joy
The simplest desires are the hardest to feed. I desire touch. To touch and be touched; not sexually, but to be held and told, even if I know it to be false, that everything will be alright. That you have me, that I have you. People turn that into sex or brush off the need but I can’t any longer. I’ve finally, irrevocably, come to terms with just how broken I am. Tears are a regular occurrence. The walls I put in place crumble when the false cloth of this constructed life is peeled back and all I have is silence. And a desperate need for anything but, coupled with a intense desire to hear nothing. Not even the blood rushing through my ears makes a sound. And at the end, I just want to crawl in bed and find that you are snuggled against me. I want your touch, the comfort and joy being around you brings, but I’m not quite delusional enough to believe you, or anyone could love me. But gods, I wish to be proven wrong.