jesus i had this crazy minor burst of inspiration to write last night, just a word of a phrase of a sentence of an idea that kept repeating itself in my head while i was in the shower, growing bit by bit. and it felt so natural, like it hasn't felt in 9 months. it didn't last very long and i don't know how good what i wrote was, but it was a start and i was happy about it. thought it might never happen again, you see.
what i wrote:
he likes to impress girls with his party tricks, slight sleights of the hand which catch them giggling because they're already drunk enough to find just about anything impressive, if done with that steadiness that they lose so quickly themselves. card tricks, stolen coins, anything really, to get their attention.
boys, he says, are easier, because they're full of that pent-up exhaustion, hiding looks behind looks and always cutting that curly hair so that older brothers can't tug on it, that leads them, half awake, half asleep through the whole process until they're half naked and pressed up against the wall of a stranger's bedroom in a stranger's house, kissing and breathing whole winds up and down each other. eyes half closed. the moon half shining.
and he doesn't think about it, really, not when he's putting his tongue in their mouths, and not when he wakes up in the early morning, a little disoriented and cold all over from the stinging night air except for where they sleep across his chest, where their legs tangle with his. and the air is dark, his skin is damp, his eyelids are drunken even though he swears on his life he doesn't drink. he can't remember who they are, though he has a vague idea of a name. starts with an r, or an l. ryan. rebecca. luke. sharing his name isn't an uncommon occurrence. he holds his breath, and he quietly slips out of their hold, lays their head on the floor or a pillow or on someone else. he doesn't think about it then, either.
it's just when he opens the front door, having collected all his lost clothing from wherever they've been scattered around the house that he thinks about it, for a brief moment. how he doesn't mind, either way, long as he's not alone any night. how his shadow doesn't always follow him — usually lags behind. how he is the shadow, if shadows are as fuckable as real, human people. how, if love felt like he always thought it would, then every night he would be making love, every night he would fall asleep to a warmth that he could breathe clear as water into the people he loved, so like the seasons winter would never come.
