She soothes my soul but she doesn..t fulfill my heart. I swing around in a circle on my chair and I think about the specifics.. 1) Well, she acts like we..re together and for some reason that comforts me even though it frightens my bones. 2) She notices the intricacies that make me and accepts and loves them despite how crazy she realizes I am. 3) My 4 am phone calls are greeted with ..I was hoping you would call... 4) She LOVES sex. 5) SHE LOVES SEX.. in all shapes and forms.
And that should be enough. Should it not? Nope, not for me. This is not enough for a Peter Pan boy of epic imaginations. This boy wants more. This boy cannot stop thinking about the Wal-Mart peek-a-boo seductress that forces him to use a credit card to pay for his Coca Cola. He can..t stop reliving and animating the lean back on a bed and the understated dance that blares through a stadium speaker. He can..t help but think that his Bret Ashley is destined to love some schmo while he wishes for a distant closeness in the cab on a ride home.
It..s official. I..m an asshole. I know that I don..t want her. I like her alright, but I refuse to tell her that this heart was taken by an unlikely ransacker weeks before her visit and eventual relocation. I refuse to tell her that her trip out here may be unfruitful despite her high expectations. I act as if nothing has changed. I act as if I..m falling in love.
And for some reason I think this is alright. For some reason she also thinks that this is alright despite my obvious chnages. ..If she were here things would be different... Truth is, they wouldn..t. I..ll let all you ladies out there know right now, a heart drifts because it is unsatisfied by the previous hunt, not because of situations. I..ve known real love. And real love does not drift. Real love wants to be so close to the person that they want nothing more than to squeeze every breath of life out of the other person into a cup and drink it slowly over every decade that will make up that person..s life. That..s love. It..s that ..thing... And there is nothing you can do to fake it. At least not in the heart. ; it knows. Either you have felt it before and know how to mimic it, you act like what you think it would be like, or you really feel it. And only the heart knows the answer to the puzzle. My heart tells me that the Indy 500 is over.
Only the heart knows that the body has already swallowed the juices of this funnel of deliciousness and is now feeling hungover and.. you know what I..m sick of these fucking metaphors, are you not?
I want the small blonde that makes my mind drift for days at a time. I want the girl that leaves me guessing where I stand. I want the girl that can..t die her hair pink, though she desperately wishes she could and still secure a job. I want the Myspace addicted girl that brings the facepaint to a game and wishes that she could wear it and a jersey without being ridiculed by her friends. I want the girl that only accepts a peck on the cheek at the end of a great night when all this boy wants is to wrap her up in a towel naked so that he can open it up every once in awhile and give her a razzledish (which I..ve just made up now for the action that I picture). I want the girl that will challenge me enough to keep things interesting yet care enough to let me win every once in awhile. For some reason though, I can..t help but feel that she..s just my Bret Ashley and that the next schmo will steal my thunder and care for my mermaid like a true captain would, leaving this lonely pirate with the agreeable wench with a fondness for ship head.
No comments:
Post a Comment