the impossible

May 17, 2008 - 21:31 PM PST

the impossible.

or perhaps, the inevitable. a hungering that begins in the back room of your heart and irrepressibly grows, like a cancerous tumor, into the rest of your ribcage, up your throat, and finally nestles into the soft grey matter above and between your eyes.
the small furtive voice that whispers nervously "try, just try. accept. imagine." the tone is that of a preschooler with a crone's eyes. and almost as believable.
the impossible.

or perhaps, the uninvited. unwelcomed, unknown, unsafe. the closed door. it's closed for a reason, locked for a worthy purpose, but still. still. there is the thin thread of dull light seeping out from under the edge. the floor is faintly colored by this fugitive illumination.

so the hopeless romantic views a worn couch inside a frat house. not even a bed, but a closed and locked council room, in which the window looks onto my own dormitory. i can see where i should be. i can see my own bed.
but i am not there.
i am in the arms, in the lap, in the hands of someone who doesn't even know my name. he knows my breasts. he knows my hair. he knows my mouth. he knows the wetness that has somehow gathered between my shaking knees.
he is vain enough to think that he has caused this. he is blind enough, perhaps it is too dark, to think that he can conjure this sort of response from me.
maybe he did.
he thought i was from russia. then france. then germany. his perception changed with the words i whispered in his ears, moaning in different tongues in order that mine would not give me away. show me up. spotlight my own hunger. my own need. my own desire.
how bemused i am, now sitting in my own home, at the idea that i traded my lips, breasts, legs and a myriad of other gifts with such unworthies as this truant. truant is what he was, a trespasser, willingly allowed in where he had no right to be.
there was some sad joy in that willingness to hurt. the amiable way in which i allowed so many nights to pass with him, his counterparts, their cohorts, and sundry. the gleeful acceptance of loveleses touch. heat without fire, sweat in the cold unforgiving concrete confines of too many unkempt rooms.
the impossible.
the very real and blissless night.