this is where i put my foot.

This is where I put my foot—right beneath yours. Breath is even; heart is not. I’ve no idea why I am here. I don’t know these walls, and the sheets are not my own. Yet somehow, it all feels strangely familiar, disarmingly safe. It is better than okay, and it is not okay at all. Arms are winter twigs, brittle and not altogether inviting. I want to be here, yet I cannot ignore the biting urge to slip from the smooth body beside me, piece my clothes back onto my skin and melt away into the night, into the street. It would be hurtful—I know. It would be fucking stupid—I know. I would regret it—I know. Still, I toy with the idea of leaving; toss it around like a piece of forbidden fruit in my mind’s eye. I won’t. Run away, that is. It is less complicated to remain here, uneasy but carelessly content. Tomorrow will be time enough to examine myself. I’ll brew some tea, throw my father’s ragged old cardigan over my shoulders, and let my feet take me down to the river. There I’ll roost, like a spindly baby bird, one set of fingers twined through the mug in my hand, the other set going through the motions of chain-smoking. And I’ll reflect…I will let the snaking autumn river carry my fretful thoughts away with itself, leaving me desirably empty.

That’s what I’ll do. And so, for now, it is alright to stay. I focus on not moving, on a spider legging its way along the ceiling, on the faint dusty light siphoning in through the window from outside. I focus on the narrow closet with its door flung open, on the sound of the cat rustling through the hallway, on the white-hot beating of my heart. It feels erratic. Is it that there are still traces of the red wine we drank earlier sifting through my veins? Although it couldn’t be, I only had a single glass. I am willing myself to drift into non-consciousness, into release. I want it too badly though, my body won’t have it. This aggravates me. Were I alone right now, I’d peel myself out of bed, pull knit slippers over my naked feet, and go sit in the sun porch. I would drink frosty water out of a glass with ice and wedges of cucumber. There would probably be a cigarette involved, or two. I would set the array of candles strewn across the room alight, and I would feel calmer, feel more myself.

It would be insane for me to go ahead with that right now, though. It would only bathe the night, this night, in an obvious complexity. I’d rather recognize it as such myself, and let it go at that. As far as anyone else is concerned, all is well. I’m laying here, now successfully motionless, and my eyes are draped closed. I’m so visibly at rest. The fact that I am playing a role is irrelevant, because I’m pulling it off. It’s making me feel like I’m at a funeral inside, though. Instead of sleeping, I am mourning. Who’d know?

Sky’s light is turning a pearly heather-gray; morning is near. I’ve startled myself by remaining here. I don’t feel any more at ease, but a smoothening resignation has set in.

We wake up; make coffee. Laughter is soft. Legs are bare. Coat, boots, scarf, bag slung across shoulder. Day has set in and I am gone. Like that, I am gone. And its okay. I can breathe again. Light and heat and my feet touching on cement drenched in morning warmth. Its done and I know it. But for now, there is today. There is today, and it is good. I walk away, and home. Moving through, moving forwards, moving forwards and through.

*



(Chase Cohl--http://www.littledoeislove.com)

All I miss is all that I am ashamed of.
Bisous.
(All is well, even though words may seem to speak otherwise. Rest assured.)
RB.