Monthly Archives: October 2011

Wild Horses keeps blaring from the rambling man’s apartment upstairs.  I know I’ve dreamed you a sin and a lie. I have my freedom but I don’t have much time. Faith has been broken, tears must be cried. Let’s do some living after we die. Wild wild horses, we’ll ride them someday. It’s been on repeat all afternoon.  Good ‘ol New York noise.

This is really about us though.  Her. I keep rereading the note she left:

I’m sorry, but we have to see other people, just for a little while. It’s not you, it’s me, I just need some space and some experience elsewhere in order to truly appreciate how wonderful you are. Please understand that this will only strengthen our relationship in the future, it’s a building block, ya know? I’ll be back, I promise.

That was it.  No contact since.  God, where is the end of missing someone?  What rock can I go sit on that will make me stop loving her. Longing for every piece of her. Tell me, I’ll go right there.

Sit on that rock and zip, zap, zop, I’ll be cured of my heartache. Oh and also, I feel it is important to let you know this: I firmly believe that lightning is everything.  Everything.

We fell madly in love for a while and traveled the world and dreamed until in turned into a disaster.  Or, at least that’s what I like to believe.

She would take her bra off quickly and often.  Quickly and often.  Those tits, I can still picture my pointer finger slowly tracing circles around her nipples until I landed on the points.  Pinch them ever so slightly. It would make her whole body quiver, and then she’d bite her bottom lip.  I loved when she did that.  The cutest half smile I’d ever had the pleasure of licking.

I saw a man do that to her once.  Pinch her nipples, not dream about her smile, not glaze her lips.  I know someone must be doing that right now.  That fucker.  He looked rustic.  Back in the early days.  And I could already tell how they met  He’d go to this neighborhood coffee shop because it seemed like the thing to do, sit and pretend that he wrote romantic poetry .  Maybe he did write romantic poetry.  I don’t know how else Prea could have let him up to her place.  I use to watch her, I never told her that.  The first time I walked to the counter and ordered my black coffee she was resting her head against the olive antique chair near the window.  The day was rainy and humid.  Thick city air.  One knee was bent to her chest and her hands grasped the book with such a gentle elegance I couldn’t stop staring.  Beige t-shirt and skinny jeans.  Hair pulled away from her face in a loose thick braid.  Eyebrows perfected.  I drew sketches of her that night in my apartment.  Pen and ink.  I came once too. I had to.  Smeared a drop of my cum against her red lips and watched the ink run down the page.

Mostly I only use to sketch these intricate jungle monsters that had Lego’s for feet.  She was the second girl I ever drew.  But the first one I really felt.  I don’t feel that much anymore.  The taste of a wild tomato.  Juices on my tongue, I feel that.  But I don’t really feel.  I bit this girl Amanda’s clit last night in the elevator.  I went to a rooftop banger on the Bowery with Kurt and Brendan.  Coke and con-artists.  Brendan’s usual Thursday night crowd.  She was real messed up.  Swigging vodka like it was diet coke.  Hexagon tattoos on her forearm all layered.  I don’t know what it is with hipsters and hexagons.  They worship that shit.  Her cunt wasn’t juicy enough.  Sweet and soft, but not Prea’s.  Fuck man.  Quickly and often.  That’s how she comes to mind.  Boom.  She’s there, right in the center. Big brown love-filled deer eyes gazing at my  face when all I’m trying to do is get inside and bust magic.