The ineloquent attempt to create a vision. It's after, not before, that I always realize that despite my best intentions to forget, the only action this now summons is a distant memory. A faraway ache that stems elaborately at first then wanes into a pinch. I never know what to blame. Why am I not attracted to him? Why is he not attracted to me?
Is it the chemistry or the biology?
We sit and then lay side by side. The sun comes in slanted, but pierces through the blinds so that it bathes the bedroom in a darkening yellow. The room itself is sparse. Three pieces of essential furniture, a half-filled closet. Everything is quiet except the wind which beats the windows in loud, periodic gusts. There is no television. No music. We play a game on my phone. We go back to sleep. He kisses my shoulder, my neck. Greedily. Does he mean it? My hair is still damp from the shower I took earlier before going; still sits in tight curls despite. There is no alcohol involved. (I find this part the most concerning.) The feeling of it all; sober, sane, conscious, feeling, maybe some form of pure. It's been over three hours and the restlessness begins to kick in and so I begin to get dressed and so does he. There have been moments of explanations and questions. Now I want to recoil tight, go back into hiding. Recollect.
We part, awkwardly, in the daylight. More akin to the separation that occurs in an early morning then that of a late afternoon.
.
.
