I taste your cologne on my tongue. It’s manly, delightful, and deliciously sinful.
Your body says yes while your mouth sings another tune. I give you distance, something it seemed like you were saying you wanted.
Now, in reference to thinking about contacting you, I ask the question why? And I know why. it’s a stupid reason where I feel like I’m in grade school again saying it.
“I like you.” Simple, easy, surprisingly stupid with this line of reasoning. I can play, be my goofy self, and feel oddly accepted by your presence. I see your strange light of who you are, and it generally jives with my weird ass light stuff.
I ask the question just to remember the whole process of it all. Reaching out, looking into the void as my words stretch into an infinite black hole.
Do you reach out again? How long do you wait? Of course, around a week or so. Five days maybe? It all feels like a game. I fail horribly at games, I don’t know how to play them.
I always wondered why women touted the whole wait to contact thing. If you enjoy each other’s company what is this need to wait and pretend to waffle about? If you have a busy schedule just tell them that. Then, pencil that particular person in when you’re available. When you want to be with someone you make time. There isn’t any hemming and hawing to be done.
You will move mountains for this person.
But, what about those who express their need for ‘freedom?’ They take your interest and declarations of future ideas for hangouts and start to hyperventilate it seems. I’m sure the collar of their shirt is suffocating them with the idea of having someone else wrapped around them.
Then, you have another side of a coin. When they finally have you, then over time you take advantage of each other. The fire, spark, white hot flames burn out to a flicker. Then you’re left to fan the fires dying embers without any success. It turns to sizzling coals by the end of it.
The love is there, it’s just morphed into something comfortable and reliable. Like a blanket you wrap around yourself in the dead of winter. Except the threadbare result of so much wear means there are holes that can’t be repaired anymore.
I don’t comprehend it. This desire by those who can’t, or won’t, pursue. And those who have lost interest over the years. They lose their need for the touch of flesh against flesh. This cycles throughout life, history repeating itself over and over again. I never seem to learn the right lesson.
It’s like Groundhog Day for all the relationships in my life. The days keep repeating, the situations stuck on an never ending loop pattern. I repeat it trying to find the right way to break what I continue to get stuck in. Maybe I make things too complicated? Causing my own infinite pattern to repeat.
All I know is I end up not trusting myself. To give platonic love, complicated love, receive it, really replenish it, and so I bury the embers of it all.
How can I brush your insatiable taste off my tongue?