Written August 2009:
At night, before bed I think of all the possible conversations we’ve had. All the ways I tell you I want you and the ways you want me are there. I lay my head on your knee and your fingers twine my hair behind my ear and we’re happy in love or lust or just the touching is enough for the both of us. I can see that you’re uncomfortable, that you have something to say but no words are formed in my mind as clearly as my own and I can’t get past each performance to the moment that matters most. I get caught up on each detail, how every phrase is turned and every motion is moved. Like a broken record I play it over and over. And by the time I’m ready for the next scene to play, I’ve forgotten why I want to see it. There is no magic in precision… in love. The world is like a clockwork mechanism geared for chaotic moments of happenstance. As if the meticulousness of detail that keeps the world from crashing into the sun serves only one purpose… random orientation, haphazard circumstance, chance. So in bed just before sleep I give up on the perfected moment and can only hope for good luck.
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