.....Feeling Noreaster,
Saint Louise Was Listening On
1:54 a.m. || 2004-11-06
I feel your hair between my fingers, coarse and thick, and I feel like if I tried, I could just cloak myself in it and disappear.
Your breath is warm, and it tickles the curve of my neck, each baby fine hair stands on end as the tip of your nose brushes the lobe of my ear, and I have to remember to keep breathing. I redouble my efforts to stay in the moment, not jumping ahead, not for wanting of your skin, shocking and exposed that I know will come later. The now of it is how full my lips are compared to yours, the now of it is the steel of your glasses brushing lightly against my cheek, the now of it is the way the denim of your pants feels under fingertip.
I feel like I have waited an eternity to come here in this place, and a part of me is drifting through the motions of it, too detached to come together with the other half that is heady with the need of you, too aloof to be consumed, to be ruled, to be conquered by any of it. I know it frustrates you, I know it arouses you. I pant with the thought of it. The way you say "fuck" makes sweat break on my brow.
I need your hands on me like I need air, like I need music, I am live rhythm, I am vibrating with the timbre of it.
Sometimes I forget that this isn't real. You don't even know who you are. How can I expect to know you.