Morning After

 

Naked:
I pick your clothes
As I sift through the ruble
On the floor
Separating yours from mine
Noting the spot
On the carpet
Tainted wine.
The stench of cigarettes
Invade my mind
With that gaze you made
That beckoned me
The bump and brush
That signalled the beginning
Of all these on the floor
In your bed
In my head
I wish my ease had not misled
You to think
That I would dread
To wake up next to you
Every awkward hour
From today.
I fold your clothes
And stack them neat
While you dream an else
In your deep sleep
I put on mine
Without a peep
And take my leave.
Something else is beginning
With each step I’m taking
This possibility I’m holding
Of us
Of you
Waking
And seeing the magnitude
of my pining,
Stacked at the foot of your bed.
I wish you’d see
That I could be
The one you’re dreaming of
Instead.

Cinquain of a Short-lived Love Affair

 

goodbye

short, swift

coming, laughing, crying, going

five lines for five weeks.

goodbye

Weekend Wife

Not the one you were hoping for,
I’m afraid this might be the end of it.
As the credits rolled on the movie
We were supposed to be watching
Together, I awake slowly
From falling asleep in your arms,
Where I felt so at home
When there was nobody there
And all the lights were off
And the rhythm of your moaning
Was all I could hear
As I keep myself from gagging
From the scent of another man
On your crotch, I try to lap up
Every last drop of love that he missed
Or left behind.
You have a way of pulling yourself back
Into my picture
After a week’s worth of absence.
I must teach myself that you are only mine when it is
Convenient,
When your life and mine
Suffer a plateau.
When all the chores are through
And it is too much of an effort to
Go outside. We will make my couch
Our home. And pretend that this
Is the only life we’ve had all along.
No sense covering your tracks
Or making excuses. I forgive you,
Whether I feign getting hurt by the
Prospect of your infidelity. I hope
You realize when I ask you to give me
Your penis I meant your heart.
If only you could take it out, you say.
It doesn’t matter.
I have resigned to the fact that you would
Never be mine.

Except on Sundays.

Poles

Let’s you and I
Talk, before we
Begin, before we
Near the distant falling apart.
Yes, I know you know you
Know yourself, as I.
So let’s not fool ourselves
Into thinking that time
Displaced in this place
In time is going
To change change
Since it’s an entity unknown
In our consistence.

Except expectations
About our changes to ever
Coincide inside
This globe we find ourselves in,
I have everything:
Velocity,
Trajectory,
Inertia.

As do you as due you.
And
This
Gravity
That
Causes
Us
To
Retard

Becomes our assurance
That a collision would be evitable.

Yet, we are in this globe
By circumstance.
By a string of whimsy,
And whiskey
You whisked me,
Got frisky,
Then risky,
Your eyes have teased me.
And we revolve in this magnetic field.

Poles.

So alike are we.

So we cannot be.

TWISTED

To please you

My not quite lover,

I twist and bend

Until this nothing

That binds me to you

Becomes something

Familiar to us both

– that same nothing

that is held between

our clasping hands,

the lull between

the beats of the song

you sang for me.

You swore to me

the air between

our promises,

the gasps that link

our tears.

That same nothing–

Familiar to us both–

Becomes something

That binds me to you.

Til then, this nothing,

I twist and bend,

My not quite lover,

To please you.

On Confessions

The Kiss of Death

Is not so fatal

If the person you are kissing

Is invincible.

Intangible

all i really wanted to do was hold his hand

Start Here

Since September of last year, (wow, it’s LAST year) I’ve been hanging out with a guy that I met online 2-3 years ago.

I was surprised to discover that he was working here. And when I saw him in Facilities, I couldn’t bring myself to approach him because I had this huge crush on him before. And I felt really awkward and self-conscious.

So after a few weeks, I found out that he was interested with me after all. And we started hanging out, smoking, or getting starbucks. At first we always went in a group. And we almost never spoke directly to each other. Then eventually, we’d go just the two of us.

I always made a conscious effort not to be affectionate with him, especially after I heard he was in a relationship. This is herculean for me, knowing how touchy I am. And you know how it is when you’re consciously trying to avoid something, every sense, every iota of feeling associated to it becomes intensified.

I remember our first conversation– well it was more of a non-conversation because we had no words. He wouldn’t even look at me. I told him, you don’t enjoy chatting much do you? He just smiled.

Eventually,we started talking about random work-related things, but always at least a three feet apart.

As the days went by, I grew comfortable enough to brush against his arm when we’re walking. Touch his hair. Look into his eyes. Pat his back. Take a picture together. I remember one time I even put my head on his shoulder.

impending doom

 But to hold his hand–

I think will be disastrous for me. Why am I so addicted with keeping myself just before the things that I absolutely want? Some of his team mates have been encouraging me to pursue him despite his current relationship. But I don’t want to be that guy.

I fancy him so, in a way that I feel intense infatuation. But consciously, short of love. I know that if I give in that I will only be counting the days until he is lost forever.

I think of him as a hovering fantasy. My precious horseman of the apocalypse. The contents of my Christmas stocking.

Forever a mystery.

Review

quench

 

I hope that in writing this, I do not risk boring you with the cliche “getting over” phenomenon. Isn’t it funny that people can’t get over “getting over.” It’s repetitive. And I find, especially lately that it’s torture. Worse, it’s addictive.

I’m not an expert at keeping relationships. The longest I have been with anyone was in my last tryst, which lasted an epic four months. So don’t consider me an authority on relationships. The best advise I could give you on that regard is rooted in my idealism, or more honestly, my hopelessness.

I am, however, an expert at obsessing and the conundrum “what if?”

Exhibit A: Today, I got a call from my bestfriend in Singapore. The story of our friendship is a little complicated and deserves it’s own entry, but it’s roots may be significant in this discourse. I used to have a crush on him. I would stalk him in swimming class but never had I made any attempt at a formal interaction with him. I later formed a friendship with him when he left for Singapore and I rediscovered him online.

I still secretly wish he would fall for me.

Exhibit B: That bestfriend called me about my ex, the one I mentioned at the beginning. Yes, they met each other online through me, when ex and I were still pre-exes. Now they message each other more often than ex and I do. My bestfriend said that my ex was livid when he told him that I said my ex made a great bottom.

Although I feel that the timing of my ex and my separation had been appropriate, I still believe that it had been premature (but the reason it would never progress is beyond our control, or simply he didn’t wish for it to.)

My ex and I are in good terms. Yes, we don’t talk much (almost not at all anymore) but I’m not particularly mad at him. I actually think that in a few years, maybe we can give it another shot. But then again, we might just be too different.

Sometimes, I still ask myself if I did everything I can to keep him.  

Exhibit C: The first guy I ever dated wasn’t gay then. Well, he was experimenting. I saw him once. And I remember everything. We had a great and long conversation that one time we went out. We’ve always had a lot to say to each other. We never ran out of clever things to say.

That is, until he began to fade away,

It’s been about three years since then. I never saw him again. I lost his number with my phone. But in the most unexpected moments, he would pop up in my messenger and try as I may, I could never fully be apathetic about it.

I don’t know how wise it is to hope that he’ll find me again.

I’m known for being foolish.

Is it a sense of unfinished business that causes these feelings to persist? If this business is unfinished, then why does it seem that the object isn’t bothered by it at all? Is it like two people holding hands and the other one lets go but the one left behind still has his arm outstretched?

Their palms are open– facing upward. Isn’t it the same as begging? Or is it simply waiting? Or checking for rain?

I realize of course that keeping your hand outstretched makes it harder to embrace someone else. And the drought could be long, that it could take aeons for a single raindrop to fall upon the valley of your palm.

But then again, would you rather be parched in a warm embrace?

Or be quenched by a drop of pure bliss?