This evening seems to be never-ending. Thoughts and thoughts trash about in my cranium like woodland creatures foraging in the forest—keeping me awake, I stare up at the ceiling, counting the grooves on the rafters. The minutes tick slowly, seemingly backwards, then forward, pausing for a moment to tease me as I kick my covers off, pull them back up, writhing with a fevered intensity. One thirty-seven A.M.: I have reached the point of mild delirium. The sun has yet to rise; the sky is still a dark blue. I contemplate making coffee like some people contemplate grabbing a beer at noon time. It’s a lonely kind of misery made more so by the fact that there is a number in my contacts list that I want to call, except that at the moment, I have been exiled from her gated community.
My thoughts — the desires that are ripping my heart apart — seem to be fashioned around the one that got away. The fevered intensity has ratcheted up a notch; in my nocturnal nostalgia, the air suddenly had the faint smell of her essence that clings to my skin like she used to. It feels like jail, a jail that smells like a maraschino cherry at two A.M. I wonder how long it will take to wash that smell off my skin — a minute, or maybe two days. Her face is etched on the irises of my eyes. Her smile is painted in my memory like a David Siquieros mural. When I clutch my chest, my arms are still molded to fit her contours.
We were somewhere in between shy, stuttering kids and bored beat poets with existential thoughts and burning libidos. We talked about books, about politics, about music. We talk shit about chronic Instagramers. But when it came to us, we talked about anything other than tomorrow (the nights we fucked, we did so as if it was the last night on earth.) But something was there. It had to have been. Underneath lust’s lacy veneer, there was something deep and profound. I may have projected way too much onto her.