Longing

You're in my mind. You're here, you're in my arms. I miss you. That night was magical. You were everything I wanted. I had never felt so interested in a man. Every time you touched me, I was overwashed in magic. Every time I caught you looking at me, my whole body smiled. I was warm, I was safe. I wanted to be with you.

I didn't throw myself at you. I told you how I felt. I was honest, I was frank, I was blunt. No, I'm not customary. I'm not traditional. I'm not every other girl you've been with. But I care for you. I want to give you everything in my own way.

You're not here. You're on the other side of the world, with her. She's giving you hers; I can't give you mine. You can't love what's not here. I used to have my dreams, but now, no more. I stay up all night. You smile all day. You sleep next to her. I pace and curse.

Angst

I pace restlessly. It's 11pm, 1 am, 4 am. The streets are cold. They have answers, but the answers are not easy. Perhaps around the next bend. Maybe in a passing car with one headlight. I've walked into another neighborhood. No answers here either. I take a bus home.

Three nights ago, we met. We talked, laughed for eight hours. the sun came up, we bought coffee. No exhaustion, just satisfaction. I felt like I had known you for years. 2 nights ago, we consummated our affections in a glorious bliss and a tangle of sheets. Your body felt right and every movement felt like a choreographed rhythm. Beauty in mechanics. Last night, we slept. In each other's arms, like we had known one another for years and years. the occasional kiss. I think you said my name in your dreams. I never slept so well in my life.

Tonight you told me it would never work. You never wanted to see me again. I asked you why, fighting tears. It just would not work, you said. I never understood. Is there another? No. Something I said? No. Something I didn't? No. You are sick? You are dying? No and no.

And so I walk.

Today's word: Hippie

I was a stranger in another land, foreign but not too foreign. Amidst pickled orange vegetables and moonspeak, I met subspecies hippie literatus. A free-wheelin' do-gooder unlike anyone I'd ever thought I wanted to call my friend. The man served others with a no blesse oblige ordinarily only seen on people who had no need for money, yet he seemed to be in want. A pedigree of man of myths: handsome, knowledgeable, patient, kind to disabled children. I'd testify that the man was part German, part Cherokee, part angel.

The hippie walked with a short gait, as if trying to minimize the environmental impact of a 6 foot-4 inch frame. He walked silently, as his roving tee-pee-dwelling ancestors had done hundreds of years before, thousands of miles away. When he spoke, his wit was brief and poignant, like soft-spoken Will Rogers. Perhaps it was a shyness that kept him from saying to much, a fear of earthly criticism.

He brought me to his bed, and whispered to me that I was beautiful, turning out the light and softly brushing my hair. My head was in a rush, as if in the midst of a warm ocean wave the breath was being drawn out of me: exciting, slightly scary, but hauntingly comfortable and completely entombing. I felt the passion rush over me in the most dangerous way. I wasn't a willing participant that night. The angel's passions nearly overwhelmed my senses, but I knew the fall from grace would kill if soaring to the highest heights could give life. It was a risk too great that I did not take. I wish I could take it back, and take my angel