Ok, so now I am stretching my phychic abilities to thier limit. But, I know this facebook time check works. At least for Correlation being as good as it is worth. That and the unresponsive void left after my last message. Multiple times I fact checked this against our best days so I know that this data holds weight. P values could be examined. Statisticall viability could be discussed if applied across populations. He has been taken offline for so long that he is no longer plugged in to anyone but her. My imagined generic woman that he has chosen. He has plugged her in to him by searching out just the right songs to play in bed and tickle her female brain enough to make her wet while she waits for him to make the next move.
This is where my tears finally come like summer rains, fast and hard but over befor morning coffee. Goodbye sweet man, enjoy her. You will spit her back out anyway at somepoint and break her heart like the rest. You are broken and not capable of real love. I feel warm pitty for you in this. Like figgy pudding on christmas day, tasteless but required eating if brittish.
Like some alarmingly large percentage of the population you cannot feel. Like a baby mouse who was not licked enough by his mother. It is a new modern affliction run rampant, adult detatchment disorder. It is epidemic. What happened to all these poor people that can't love. Were all these children ignored in favor of corporate worlds, tv dinners and other sad tales of busy modern life?
My hansome charming friend platonically courts love while seducing randoms on tinder on weeklong getaways where sex and travel are nicely merged. He seeks out long legs and short skirts and easy access and then tosses them aside like the peels of a ripen and well enjoyed banana. On the ground. He then returns to long platonic hours and days pretending that the blond on the back of his motorbike is not his girlfriend. Because he is not sharing his bed or his skin with her he can let her long hair flow behind her as they ride thru the night. Him letting her hold tightly to the clarity that her hands around his waste are all she can have. He is too broken to share a bed with anyone whose company he enjoys.
Do you want to fuck? The message blinked onto my phone. His dating profile photos were quirky and hansome in all the right ways. He was even french. His image portrayed himself as much more evolved and witty than one who would ask such a question. Black and white with angles and shadows that intentionally pointed out asthetic inclination. Yet, with this one simple line he became not an artistic frenchman but just another human confusing his dick for his heart and wondering why he was unclear about the meaning of life.
Do I want to fuck? No! Do I want to be kept at arm distance from your heart? Do I want to be tested for holes as you saunter in and around me but never thru me. No! I want you to meet me and say I have no idea for how long but I want you fully now. I want you completely. I want you, all of you. The whole apple pie. Sex yes, but your soul and your brain and your heart too. Is this too much to ask? Do I want to fuck? No, I want you to reach in fully and grab my heart tenderly in your hand and turn its contours around in your fingers untill you know it as your own and understand its reasons. Red and fleshy and rawly beating. Hold it gently with the knowledge that it is breakable if dropped quickly. If you need to let it go because you and I don't match up like even rows of corn or the last 15 minutes of some b grade romance, then set it down gently and I will blow you a kiss as I walk away. But do I want to fuck? No.
No comments:
Post a Comment