Between the Fabric

I almost passed out. I was flush red. My mind raced between whether it was real. Or if I was making it happen. You see, I'm currently wearing eyes that insist on viewing what they want to see. I'm blind to reality because in fact reality sucks.

Love for me is a constant wave of disappointment. A person waltzing in takes over my reason (you should be sleeping) only to be oblivious to my stupid and pathetic. Unsatisfactory feelings. I hate feeling this way. As if my feelings don't matter. I'm supposed to play the fiddle. The music and the smile. And they're supposed to play naive. Unaware of how I feel. How I find every gesture, every nod and glance more than it is.

I'm stupid.

And because I long for something I pretend I'm not interested in. To sleep and hold myself with another being. To feel touched and wanted.

Instead, I stick myself in the cycle. In and out of fantasies. This one or that. All of whom follow the path by which I do not. Who are nice. And sympathetic. And seem to understand that, hey, it's alright. If I did float with you we'd soar the skies together.

Instead, I don't.

I almost passed out as flesh pressed against fabric against flesh. Unaware by everyone but me. Unable to talk. Breathless and light headed. If I had drank, I would have vomited. I felt sick to my stomach.

My heart ached as a fireball rolling against the milky muscles. Nerves stretched. My head expanding. My brain pressed against my skull. It's almost all to much. I've got to explode and explain myself to him.

But to what end? To become disappointed again. To find out truth is truly the truth. That I've got nothing to look foward too when I turn the corner and they're standing there. That their presence makes my heart skip.

I almost passed out. Fresh pressed against fabric against flesh. Unaware that I was in a total state of nirvana. For a hint of what could be. Embracing. Touch. Acceptance.


Instead, it stopped. And became a moment that means nothing. A silent moment where the world exploded. In a crowded room. An exchange of jumbled words means nothing when you're the one with the secret.

And no one else even cares.