He had the entire sitting area to choose from - a room full of empty tables sans one, mine of course.  He decides to sit at the table directly in front of me - with his coffee and his book.  He’s around six feet tall wearing a decently fitted charcoal grey T-shirt, cargo shorts and some sort of active thong sandal.

His leg hairs are trimmed, I notice that as he crosses his legs.  I’ve always been curious of the people who do this.  There are those men who shave their leg hair and then other men who trim their leg hair - I suppose it’s all in good grooming and can only lead you to believe that the rest of him is just as pampered and groomed.  Of course it might be the unseen issue of anal retentiveness in the form of overly developed grooming habits, in which case I’m too much of a hippie for that.

Regardless, there was definitely some weird tension in the air - so much so that it caused me to glance up from my intense writing and web developing that I noticed his groomed leg pubes.  There was the strange and casual glancing out of the window behind him and his eyes carry a little further around the corner to my table and quickly snap back to his forward gaze.  The uneasy shifting in his chair from legs crossed to legs back down when another person glanced his way;  Rubbing the back of his neck with his fingers and slowly moving them around in his hair.

Let’s talk about my moral decency for a moment.  I do not have casual encounters and this thought never crossed my mind.  I did, however, humor in the idea that these things do happen quite a bit at gathering places such as bookstores and gyms.  I can’t tell you the number of times that my friends regale me of stories about how they hooked up at so and so spot.  I never understood how that would occur, because it just seems so out of the ordinary for a person to turn around and initiate a random sexual encounter - how do people do that, I mean, “hey, wanna fuck,” seems like such an impersonal way to pimp out your body.

None the less this character continued to fascinate me and the more time that I took to notice him the more I started to pick up about his character.  He had a tattoo of something or other on the top of his hand - this, to me, is pretty fucking bad ass;  The tattoo alone almost gave me an erection.  He was drinking black coffee, a man after my own heart.  He had a strong facial structure and nice teeth - aesthetically pleasing to look at and want to sketch.  He was reading the bible.

What?

This throws me for a complete loop.  Granted it is Sunday and people of the Lord do frequently decide to read the bible on this day, but him?  I didn’t know what to think and immediately became uncomfortable in the fact that I even thought of such sinful desires.  I’m not saying that it’s completely illogical for a man of God to have thoughts about another man (In reference to Its Always Sunny, he was just gay for God and according to christian beliefs I’m pretty sure that God is antiquated with the male form - hence, gay) it’s just not normal here in the South East.

For some reason I think that I sent out an extremely shocked vibe to the cosmos because soon after my initial reaction to the biblical reference book he decided to leave.  It’s a shame, however, because he was pleasing to look at and the thought of being with another is very comforting - not in the casual hook-up sort of way, but the romancing the idea of us together in my head sort of way.

Oh amour. Oh Jesus.

I keep second guessing myself and assume that what I have building inside of me is only me. It’s always easier to expect the worse and I’m impatient when it comes to tying the noose; To slip the knot around my neck and listen to my own breath in the silence that is this torture. My silent emotions and my silent desires that I feel ashamed to admit. I keep telling myself that I’m not like all the rest and that I can survive completely on insight and intellect, but when you are around I’m nothing less than blind and stupid. Lost and confused. Scared and willing.

I love to stare in to your eyes, just watch you. I’m split between if this is caused from physical desire or mental fascination - I know it’s both. I get so afraid to touch you or be near you. I want to nuzzle up against you and hold you and be held. I want to kiss around the back of your neck and circle my fingers around in you hair. I just want to feel you; and I should hope that you would know me well enough to know that it is not about sex. Mayhap it’s sexual, but not about sex. I try to pinpoint my fears and watch them take shape - I see you coil away in anger or uneasiness, both. I don’t ever want that to happen.

I keep wondering that maybe it’s just me. My fear is for you to know and then I loose you altogether. My fear is that you would ever go away. And one day you will, or I will, or who knows what tomorrow brings? I know that today, at this moment, I want you here. I want to listen to your stories and sit in a silent room with you all night. Because everything you do means more to me than probably you know.

I vomit on you and I kick the dirt over your grave.

And this is a tightly fitting noose for you to swaddle and save. In here I connect the pieces of your heart and from which you handed me toward the middle of March. They said that our love was futile yet apparent and I complained about what I was to inherit; from your mind and your stay, from the small little tricks you used to play. I see through all this and understand my fate, for it is not you or your friends whom have come a little to late; to my blooming and my wilt and the way my words turn to silt. It was a sin that I should not have commit - a sin that will forever stain the tears of this lament.

I grieve - for what you did not know, is that my passion yearns for no man to grow. It is the solace and lonely that feed my fire and the forgotten touch of no mans desire. I truly want all of this to end, but it’s hard to choose between my inspiration and a friend. I’m scared of falling in love with a boy, but even more scared of not ever knowing the joy; of this passion that comes from deep down within, to find light and comfort from another like minded twin.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring? What if, from that noose, my life must swing. This heart to be lost from a life filled with no action in order to drive my lust for compassion. The thought of his arms brings my words to a halt, which tells me that it never really was his fault - for not knowing my insanity of a driving muse that feeds from inhumanity in a game that I tend to lose.

Jesus is something that makes his eternity that much longer. Like a ringing in the ear that doesn’t seem to stop. It hurts and forms this crust of emotion that is almost edible along the sides of my skin. Salty and sweet like sweat and I just want you to taste it. I want you to eat my flesh like a god and make me your savior. Drink my body in to yours as I shake with desire.

And I’ll rock you to sleep and sing you my siren song and there we will be. For that is love and that is sex and that is everything that people do and try to escape from understanding.

Lust or love, it’s all the same - it’s the acceptance that makes it different.

We all just want to belong. Need to belong. Some people just get greedy.

Innocence is a gift. The locks and curls, the dirty dolls with the worn in faces. Running around the yard so hard that you get those little beads of sweat like sweet sugar water on your tongue. Faeries and sprites that dance around your head as you chase them with nets and crystal clear jars. Maybe the preservation starts when you’re not even thinking about it. The wanting to capture this beauty and hold on to it forever. The world is so vast to a child that is so unknowing. Unknowing of fears and obligations that stand to come in due time.

What is it for a child so young to be torn from this fantasy world where every moment is laced with magic and wonder? At what point does never-land become an impossibility? When do the big brown eyes of curiosity fade to concern and atonement? These trinket boxes filled with costume jewelry and elaborate journeys of make-believe provide the smallest amount of false protection to what the stories of life are longing to foretell.

She coupled her hands around the fuzzy stem of seeds and blew so hard that she nearly fell over. Each little parachute of new life taking a different direction in the wind. They blew up and over as far as her little eyes would let her see. Some of them poetically finding their way back around her nose and taking rest in the soft of her hair. It was as if they caused her to have some chemical reaction of euphoria at the delight of their departure. She closer her eyes, letting out a bountiful melody of laughter, and began to spin around uncontrollably.

It could have been the rush of the centrifugal motion or simply a condition of happy drunkenness that she fell to the soft of green that was beneath her. On her back she lethargically opened her eyes and saw the sky spinning above her. Maybe it was her wish come true, but she swore she could see pretty little princess faeries with wings of translucent white dancing above her head. They were smiling at her and laughing back at her silly repartee. That moment seemed to make time stop. The smallest moments seem to be the greatest moments in a little girls life.

Innocence. Beyond the endless cakes and candles that seem to never stop coming, the magic of not knowing and being okay with this is something to never let go of. A beauty we have yet to learn from the hollow stares and lazy smiles of a child.

There was only the glare of the television. You know how it does late at night. It lights up the room with this hollow shell of white silence, like a ghost blurring the angles and corners with shadows and flickers of light.

I was so close that I could almost read the subtitles in your eyes - words that ran backwards and made no sense. They started to sparkle in the mist of your dilated fixation. I found my self lost in their translation and lost in you. It seemed like forever before you blinked and I blinked and there we were. We were both just lost and staring.

I could feel your breath, it was slow and heavy. It ran down my neck between the skin and cotton fabric of my shirt. So close and a million miles away all at the same time. I could taste you on my lips and yet we were never touching. My hands were confused and didn’t know where to land; Hovering over you like your shadow.

You closed your eyes and pressed in to me. Your lips grazed mine stopping your breath, my heart. I collapsed under the pressure and fell in to you. I didn’t stop. I was falling forever and all over; This eclipsed abyss of sonnets and forgotten patterns of emotion. We were swallowed up by the ghost of the television and our skin blurred with the shadows cast on the wall.

I wonder if the people outside my window can see me picking at my teeth?

I sometimes like to floss for no reason at all. I do strange things from time to time and don’t realize it until the point of return has long past. I like to get caught in a daze.

I wonder if they can see my half empty glasses of water sitting all over my desk? It’s like a collection of clear stemware with moving mirrors; I wish I knew why I never finish the entire glass. I’m exaggerating, by all over I mean three glasses of water.

Sometime I dance in my chair, I wonder if they see that? I wonder these things like I have paparazzi that are constantly after me which I know is completely untrue. I doubt they can even see up this high anyway. Even if they could I’m almost positive that they wouldn’t look.

I look. I love to see inside windows, see how other people are living. I’m constantly curious how other people experience their life and I totally have that ‘to be a fly on the wall’ complex.

I’m nosey like that. I am also embarrassed that someone might actually see who I really am if they look through my window. What would they think? Why should I find that point of caring? I should just live life in my own daze, it is less taxing that way.

When I wake up in the morning there are birds that I can hear calling to each other, their songs are distinct and melodic to this apartment building. I hear the wind rush around the leaves that dance and shift with instinctive rhythm. These things wake me up and bring me in to the new day.

I surround myself with music and live my life with ambient persuasion. I doubt I realize how much these songs and tones affect my day to day life. When I am in the car I listen to NPR which soothes my abilities and focuses my empathy; At work when I need to be on point and precise the music will always change accordingly.

I encapsulate moments in my life by artist and album. Laying down these tracks instantly causes a reaction in my mind to replay the events that occurred when these songs first found meaning. What I was doing, what I was wearing, who I was with, a sense of smell and bewilderment all follow songs from my past - whether they were songs that I enjoyed or not.

My youth was forever programmed by these tracks and I fully believe that the music cooperated in shaping me in to the person that I am today. I am a child of the melodic persuasion.

All of a sudden it is so quiet in this space. The air, for a brief moment, is void of melody. It is so quiet that I can hear the ice in my glass screaming as it melts, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that before. I wonder how the world could function if it were void of resonance; How would I function if I were void of music? How much music means to me and how much I respect the format of harmony and beat is beyond my own comprehension. I can not imagine this world in such a harmonic void or a person without such a gift.

I love the definition of Music; The art or science of combining vocal or instrumental sounds (or both) to produce beauty of form, harmony, and expression of emotion. I have to let that sink in, especially the part about the emotion. There are not many things that can make me as emotional by way of art than music. The art of words would be an extremely close second for inspiring feeling.

I wish I could share this song with you right now, Occulta Fama, and describe the atmosphere that it is creating while I write this. How the notes wrap around my thoughts and resonate through my fingertips with every letter I press.

In the famed words of CSS, “Music is my Boyfriend”. Why would one ever need another?

I need something to be said. A reason to remember those turning points and those living lessons of virtue and abnegation. I need more to this journey than what has been handed to me - what I have taken. I evade this existence with the pessimistic thoughts of tomorrow and that weakens me to the things I am yet to learn - and I perceiver.

I get numb to the mundanity of it all. I get excited for the outcome in the end. I have these dreams, these promises and I work hard for them - to reach them. I move forward. I step back. It’s how you do - the dance you take to make the girl fall in love with you.

I find that I get bored. I want to move in my own groove but the consequence might be to loose the girl. The guy. There truly is no guy, one might wonder if there ever was - some day, I keep positive. I keep sipping on my tea at night and singing myself to sleep with the music in my head. I listen to a lot of mellow music - I find that I enjoy to be relaxed more so than to be stressed out. I see myself changing in that way, maybe it’s a part of getting older. I’m not sure.

I enjoy the rain on the window. I enjoy the perfect day. I enjoy the birds singing in the morning. I enjoy the crickets that chirp at night. I enjoy traffic jams and walking aimlessly around the grocery store. Maybe I just enjoy getting lost in life, it fills more time that would otherwise be void.

People change their motions between the relationship of a pair to that of a singular person. Time goes tick. tick. ticking by and you find yourself forgetting the ways of the pair and only knowing the habits of one. You learn a different way to drink your coffee in the mornings and you learn a different way to make dinner. You learn a different type of motivation and there in you learn how to be alone. It doesn’t suck, it’s just a different state of mind - being, but even though this ice cream is nice you’d still rather have italian ice. The fancy stuff is just always harder to come by.