Six

i would like to lay with you on a beach at night, all purple and salt, with the comfortable smell of fast food and the screeching of train cars as the city's reminder.

to be bathed in blue light shining from the streetlights of the promenade. ethereal.

i would like to slowly rub cold lotion on your chest.

to feel my hands on your pale skin as you breathe and shiver, and grin. my rings catch shine from the apartments. we write plays in our heads about their inhabitants.

i would like to admire each other, our whispers louder than the low roar of highway traffic,

to behold you with it back in your eyes, silver and ancient and liquid.

i would like to lay exhausted with you in sheets of green flannel. 

tousled boy and his wide-eyed princess.

I would like to count the freckles on your shoulder, six. 

to kneel on the dirty carpet, industrial dorm, while you read the lines in my hand and i'd watch your lips form words.

i want to find the finest bakery and buy you a cupcake, and sit with you under a tree and tell stories until my throat hurts.

White Pavement

Everyone tells you that being alone holds some kind of glorious freedom. I know what I need but I really don't want it. All I really crave is closeness. It's not about a fear of dying single, or the prospect of being a spinster, or the lack of a personal identity, it's a physical need. Have you ever had that impossibly uncomfortable feeling where you can't see the future, as if you're wearing glasses that block any kind of light, and six months from now looks like white pavement? Scarily blank. I hate that feeling. When all I see is white pavement I just want to be hugged until I explode. I think the only cure for white-pavement vision is crushing embrace. My problem is that I'm a silly little girl. I throw all of myself into something in complete confidence with a breathless "this is it"-ness. Of course it never is. As lame as this sounds, I miss being an object of affection. I miss kissing under covers and the promise of a hand to hold and boy smelling arms. I miss tangled hair and crooked grins. What I hate most is being literally almost always on the verge of tears. It's so unnatural because I've never been a crier.