Dreams of distinction

I met captain sexy up for a hangout yesterday. You know your starting to like someone when he says something and you keep thinking, 'oh what a mighty fine mouth you have.' Despite the hand holding, the flirting, and all that body language stuff, i don't think he's into me. He likes me more as someone to hang out with, so there it is. Wow i didn't think i'd care if he wasn't attracted to me but i kind of do...a bit. We joked a lot, flirted a lot, he seems like such a fun guy to be around, and he's got those sexy bambino eyes, but i have to put my brain in friend mode. In relationship mode even the slightest pin prick can sometimes send me into a minimum of 10 over indulgent psycho analytical questions. He said "You're cool" that for me is like a k.O tekken tournament bitch kick by jin kazama himself. Although i realise i have a rotten habbit of being around a guy i like and trying to convince him it's time to leave. Some guys see through it and tease me about it, there are though, guys who become incredibly irate and think im trying to get rid of them. Wow....regarde. In the strangest sense he literally took my breath away, i stared in awe , hypnotised by the strangeness and the beauty of him. It was more than the simplicity of concepts of love. I looked at him and i saw history, i saw futures uncurling into one another,hands linking through time, folding, stretching like dough. Bodies dancing , gyrating,corrupted by the smootheness of his voice. Driven by my own lustful thirst for companionship. Is it the noise of a conversation? As busy cars, panicking with horns blasting, stereo's shrieking in your ear, needle pricks and then a darkness that descends. I like wishful thinking me. I like being taken over, I like the concuction of me versus you, the slim, polite precision, of all our imperfections laid out on a plate, and the scent of you, shea butter, teasing my nostrils appart. I argue with myself often divided by all our different compositions of self, one minute i hate your arctic tone, the strut of your walk, damning, condemning, sentencing me, to love you, in all your simple shapes. It was not a paradise we belonged to, it was a bubble. It was two people with so much distance yet aligned together as cornrows, or braids. Am i your museum? I ask myself, from time to time. Disecting low hung breasts, a body as an hourglass and a mind full of too many questions. I say to him in that easy tone, fix me, without words. We could be bricks and mortar, a poem that hangs neatly in a framework house, i could be the toast to your morning tea, and then i realize, i am your inbetween time. The shade you slip into like a gown at night, the bubble is burst, and i am frustratedly tasting the salt of my own questions.


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