ConnectionI sometimes want an emotional connection with a stranger. Our eyes will lock over a shared moment and we'll smile and understand. And everything will be okay because in that second I will see my world through someone elses eyes and, for once, it won't be a shattered oblivion but a shared utopian dream.
I sometimes touch just so I can be touched back. I like to feel the skin sliding beneath my fingertips, which are just desensitized enough that I constantly need more. More skin, more feeling to satiate the urge to connect.
To connect, to physically touch and feel, to emotionally touch and find contentment so real and incomprehensible is nearly impossible to put into words. To write down the depth of the desire and desperation I feel seems an obsessive task, but one I undertake in vain.
I want... endless nights and languid days under satin sheets charged by static electricity and passion. I want passionate speech and compassionate thought and laughter. I want be comfortable with myself.
These confessions go unsaidMuscles hard with anticipation, I sit contorted in an iron chair, a subtle pain from years of tension and anxiety creeping into my left leg, crawling its way slowly through my hip, and finally settling into a spasm in my lower spine. I don't even realize how tense I am until my jaw begins to pulsate and my shoulders tremble. One by one, I let the muscles unwind, relax. It takes time, but I let myself ease out of the physical bind and into the emotional one, hoping to pick through the tangle of knots to make nice, straight threads with which I can weave more coherent thoughts. I inhale slowly, breathing in the bitter milky scent of the café.
"I'm not really sure where to start." Lately all my sentences start out like this. I'm never sure. Not certain that I should speak at all, let alone certain enough to know where to begin.
"I mean, there are so many things I've stopped doing." I tell myself I want to look up from the table, I want to look up into her eyes. She looks at me, amber