The Perpetual Candidate

We haven’t spoken in ages, or seen each other for even longer. And though I can say that for many, for some reason missing you hurts most.

I keep wondering where you went completely wrong, casting a vain eye to all that history, skeptical of finding just one single moment on which to blame it all except for this one: the day I walked through the door of your life.

And that thought, that knowing…that realization of my culpability (or, to be less harsh, the causality), is a sadness I’d rather not face.

joycesu:

“As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes.”

—

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night

Sure, you can show off a pair of jeans like nobody’s business, denim hugging those hips that sway just so, caressing your thighs, kissing your ankles, an outline that proves beyond doubt that this is a blessed Universe.

But only a few women, a precious few, can wear a skirt that disables the knees of every man fortunate enough to be in orbit. A rare, beautiful few women know how to be uniquely feminine like that, to tease with an absence of fabric or the geography of a hemline.

So although I admire all manner of beauty, I do recognize and appreciate the kind that seems so out of place today because, in almost all ways, it is a more lovely, more erotic, more sensuous beauty to behold.

I dreamed of you last night.

I was on a school bus, but wasn’t going to school. The boys on it were behaving.

Later, while standing near a gate, I held you, teased you, comforted you. You didn’t belong there, but stayed anyway. Then, we kissed. It was beautiful, soulful. It was everything I ever thought it would be.

Now, in the calm light of dawn, I’m grateful that, though we may never be together, I’ll always have you there, like you were last night, with me, in my arms, and in my dreams.