don't question me. this is where this belongs...
i'm sitting here writing a paper about attitudes toward adultery in the middle ages, but these thoughts keep flitting by inside my head...his owlish scowl behind those adorable glasses, the way he laughs so cynically at me when i spin dreams over coffee, vacant desolation, beautiful music...i love how daft he looks when he plays the drums...i'm afraid to touch him, you know. afraid to even shake his hand. i almost don't want to feel the warmth of his flesh in friendly contact...it would be easier if i didn't know him from a dream. i'm afraid he'll read this and know it's for him. i'm more afraid he'll read it and not notice. he smells like freedom...i remember the wind in my hair...i'm afraid he'll never speak to me again. i can still hear his voice: he was impressing a waitress with his command of the japanese language. things were more antagonistic then, in a friendly way. but now i can feel the banter getting thin. i don't know the strain on him, but i know the strain on me. i hear him hurt and i want to kiss away every bitter word before they sting his lips. i want to make things better; i want to make things right. but i'm wrong, and i can't. "we are lost, we are freaks..." but maybe we're just not the same species. i don't know, but sometimes it hurts that i can't slow down enough to be appealing...
there. i've said it. i've been thinking it for so long...