What are the chances that you would be in that room tonight? How ever in my mind did I conjure you up? Are my powers of manifestations so strong? Did it surprise you as much as it did me? Or did it just seem like the most ordinary, natural thing in the world? That we should meet over coffee and books, sharing neither. I grieve at this charade.
I turned my head and there you were. My hands trembled. My breath held still within my chest.
I tried to see you, unclouded. But I don't know how to do that. Yet I know you are pain. Heartbreak. I like it better when you are in dreams. This flesh and blood is not for me.
Now I'm home alone drinking wine and listening to Jim Cuddy on the stereo, letting incense burn. I hate myself for wanting you. Why don't I want to be free of this karma? I don't understand this current that sweeps me down the river, drowning me in undertows of you. But I rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. Each time gasping for air. Filled. Empty. Choking. Drowning. Never dying.
Couldn't I at least get a decent orgasm out of all of this...
