Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Interior of a Dutch House

I wanted to call you twice tonight, and to text you 5 times through-out the day. I checked a4a 3x for you. I was on Grindr hourly, looking for the golden glow of the trace of your prowl. I never took my finger out of my Facebook newstream (even though I knew you wouldn't appear--I looked anyway, as if for a miracle, a glitch).

I didn't find you and I wouldn't let myself seek you out thoroughly enough. I'm writing this instead, so I don't obsess about what you were doing, while I was was staring at the green dot of your activity. Nonchalant chatting with another boy only made the murmur of my longing more insufferable. I was suddenly scrolling through an archive of what amassed more recorded fights than I thought even existed, and which made me cringe with embarrassment as I read them. You delete your chat history, as if by impulse. A willful forgetfulness, a will-power to healthfully swallowing-down and passing-out the past. But that mechanism is miscarrying somewhere because you sometimes get wicked sick and I've seen it, a ball of writhing snakes in the pit of your stomach.

The most awful part of my lapse into memory was how vividly I remembered the intensity of the particular feeling I was suffering, and yet also how relatively insignificant it seems in light of how melodramatic I was over it. At least now, reading back on it. This isn't what's awful though. No, what's awful is that I don't know if I am simply equivocating because I am feeling lonely and distracted and jealous (imagining you happier than me, more sufficiently selfish), or if I'm realizing that I was brash and impulsive.

But as I draw near to that possibility, my senses return, my clarity of purpose thrusts its way forward again, proud and insistent.

That's all.

And I hate getting haircuts. It's not that it's bad, it's just not what she said she would do. And now some of my plumage is shorn, not like a Samson, but like a peacock, I may be striding more imperiously.

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