the secret things

Coffee and Orange Juice

Once again, I’m beat out by technology. 

That sinking feeling in my chest is causing me to sink down in my seat, down into the black hole that’s appeared beneath my feet. 

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The Lonesome

These sounds shove me from my seat here in this place to you. I already know what it’s like to sit beside you, even though I never have.

Normally I’m the kind of person who just wants to have fun. Someone who isn’t easily bothered by the fear of attachment. I can come and go easily. I often don’t care much about how other people feel about me, unless the feeling is reciprocated.
Something is happening here though. And I feel that it might only be happening to me.

You looked so handsome. You look handsome even now, hunched over your little video game. Laughing at something we saw in a video.
I saw you in that tuxedo, standing with your family. And I tried to imagine myself standing beside you smiling, swathed in a cocktail dress, our arms intertwined. But I couldn’t. I didn’t fit there. I filled that spot with someone else. Someone taller, prettier, someone holding your child.
Why did I fall for someone with whom I don’t belong? Why am I the only one looking at you from across the room the way I do? I wish I could catch you looking at me that way, the way people do when they are happy that that person is sitting there. The way they do when they realize they’re falling for that other person.
Why do I continue to torture myself with fantasies of what our future could be? Because that is not our future. At least right now I know that to be true.
I would have your children, if that would make you happy. I would support you in any way I could with anything you wanted to achieve.
If I knew I could have you in a month or six months or a year or forever, I would wait for you.
Even though you are not the one that’s meant for me. And I am not the one that’s meant for you.

Space Travel Is Boring

There is this thing you do. Whenever you start to tell me a story. I think it helps you recall a memory. You rub your thumb against your fingers. Like the gesture people do to imply something monetary. It’s like when people look around the room or snap their fingers. I think it helps you concentrate. Maybe pushes your focus into a different part of your mind.

I really hope it doesn’t turn into one of those things I find irritating. Because right now, it makes me smile.

Dramamine

I love watching you clean up your room. You’re afraid you’re boring me, but I get this grin across my face just watching you. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed it yet. You flitter back and forth, picking random things up with each pass. Walking this way, cigarettes and a pair of socks, that way, a t-shirt and a pair of shoes. And there is no order to the way your clothes are hung up. You hold them up with a chin to chest grasp and button to nearly the top. A hanger in and this shirt goes in facing left. A determined walk back across the room. Another shirt up against yourself, but this one goes in facing the right. I shift a little on the couch, because secretly this is killing me. My clothes are hung with order, they all face the left, color coordinated, sorted by sleeve length and fanciness. But my need for control stops now. I want to know you, and keep you just the way you are.