Dear Universe, Please send me a magical boyfriend or 2.5 lovers. Thanks, Wendy.
I've been thinking about you, night after night after night. I'm not sure why. Unexplainable. Unexplainable how when I turn off the light and curl under the covers I want you. I want you. And it doesn't seem real, this want, this desire. I don't even really know you. Except...except I do.
But I don't trust this knowledge. Not one bit. So I try to unfool myself, think my way out it, feel my way out of it, mysticize my way out of it. I'm just a skeleton wrapped in flesh after all, oddly alive for a while, forgetful of the mystery, and then gone. And sex is just a way to make more skeletons wrapped in flesh after all, the selfish gene and so forth and so on. Sex has to be compelling to keep the species alive. There is no magic to it, no mystery - its about evolution.
Except. Except I imagine trying to tell you this. Maybe we bump into each other unexpectedly, or maybe we are at Trudy's and you are feeding me vodka-soaked olives and I start to feel...I start to feel... I start to feel that I want more. That I want to be close to you, closer yet, closer still. Which can't be real, somehow. So I will do my best to convince myself that it is not real. I will try to unfool myself, normalize the situation, clear my head, forget the dreams, remember what is real.
Except, what is real is us, alive, right now. Right now. Together, here, in the mystery. You and me and desire and the now now now. The now now nowness of it all. And we are only here briefly, briefly here, before our skeletons undress and dig themselves into the earth. Before our skeletons undress themselves, alive right now, right now, together.
Which of course makes me want to do unspeakable things to you. And normalizes absolutely nothing. And I want to explain this to you, somehow, to see if I am making any sense, if you understand, make sure that I am not making it up. Except. Except in the explanation, when I am feeling for the words, and you are listening to me, looking at my face, and our bodies know exactly how far apart they are from one another, well... we're already fucking. Regardless of whether we are touching or not.
So, I want you. And I can't have you. Oldest story in the book. The end. Except... except I'm looking for a line somewhere, a troublesome line, a line that might not even exist. An edge, a space I might create simply by looking for it. A boundary where I can have you briefly, brieflybrieflybriefly. I want to rub up against that space, rub up against it.
Preferably in your bed.
I am clearly not going to listen to my head when the time comes for me to do so.