Hypocrisy & Chance

And we’ll sit up high in the sky. And we’ll watch them all. The expanse of color and white… And we’ll remember we don’t know what they’re doing, and they don’t know about us.
And we’ll see all the good and bad and realise its close to the same this far away.
And then you’ll tell me we should go back down.
And we will, smelling like rain and cold.
And no one will know but us. No one except for the cold, the cold which has watched for a much longer time than we’ve even existed, and has always been watching.

But it’s not enough. There’s no warmth from the written word.
Not the way most people write. A description needs more than saying what you want, what you’d like.
It needs emotion.

The cold in your limbs gone, tight around me, smelling my hair and my skin, my true smell beyond any perfumes. Natural. And feeling my constant beat against yours, the rise and fall of my chest, my pulse at various points, even the blood pumping through my very veins. Feel my muscles tense against yours and relax into you, shifting to breathe at your neck, and sigh, deeply, slowly, raising every hair over the skin it passed.
And you’d do the same things. And I would feel every single one.

I want to hold you, and feel your pulse. I want the warmth to spread from you to me and from me to you until we’re the same. I want to shift beside you and wrap my legs around you, while nestling deep into your shirt, smelling layers of you etched into the cotton. I want to feel you breathe over hear it, I want to push my body so close to you that I feel like I’m one person, alone. It would be the opposite though; I would be closer to someone than I’d ever been. I’d put my shield down and let you see. I’d let you see for just a few precious hours how cracked I am, how much I want to tear you down and push you away… and never let you go. Never let you be alone again.
Rip away your shield like I’ve done before, and feel your true desire move through you like your blood moves through you. Predict your movements, know how to make you smile, how to make you frown. I want to feel my own rhythm contrast to yours, thudding against your chest, and in the grip of your arms, and at your neck, creating a dissonance.
A beautiful dissonance.
One we could never recreate alone, one we could never create without this closeness. Without each other. A sound we could just as equally never make artificially as never forget.
I don’t know if any of that’s possible. But I’d like to think it is.

I feel like posting some more.
Just to get my thoughts together. I realize this is pretty much pointless.
I almost love her.
Honestly. I want to spend my time with her and drive her mad and laugh with her because shes about the only person who laughs like I do.
Fucking appearances deceive, guys. Mine.
I… I don’t know.
She doesn’t drive me crazy, not in any sense, she calms me down and makes me nervous just to please her. Not to disappoint.

He’s still there. He still wants to, and he says some things I really cannot understand. Manipulative ass-hole.
But I really think I love him.
Moreso as a treasured friend, a confidante, over someone to fuck and use.
He’s said things that his type never do, and he won’t say now, but he was so quick to say then, I tore him away.
And he’s so far away.
I really don’t know what I want from him.

Right now, all I want is to hold someone, or be held, and make someone feel good, perfectly happy here with me.

Yeah. I have no idea what this is. Probably an outlet so I can stop shaking my friend’s senses of self.
I seem to do that.
Quite often.
In any case, many seem to find me to be an interesting person, something which often surprises me. Perhaps some of you tumblrerers will find me so as well.

To begin, I live in Nonsense, Wyoming.
No. That town does not exist.
I believe I am in a deep case of like with a man 6 years my elder and a girl only 1. Lesser of two evils, eh? Being a lesbian or being molested?
Choices.
I am lonely, as any competent internet-goer seems to be anymore, and I enjoy writing, even if I might be rubbish.

Though no one will read this, I suspect, for a good while, you may question these words. I’d love to tell you the dirty details.

I am a pessimistic bastard.

I’ll figure this out in time, I promise.