2004-03-16
My quixotic communist
The wet tires of the city bus splashed though miniature mud puddles flooding the gravel pavement. I see the world through a sleepy haze--life through the eyes of an insomniac.
Skin exfoliators, moisturize, numerous showers--my skin feels strange all of a sudden. My dad picks me up and the car fills with piercing silence. I pull the seat back and close my eyes. I hear the echo of his voice bounce off of the empty walls in my head. A voice, an e-mail, and several pictures...but I want you. I want your warm skin pressed against mine, your hands gripping my thin waist--I need you.
You feel different somehow...comfortable, familiar, like I've been here before...in some foggy dream filled with golden dust of the past. I wondered today, as the the cold raindrops danced on the windshield, and the portentious clouds of gray sagged in the sky, I wondered today...
How did we meet?
Almost accidental...
Almost planned...
Almost perfect...
But does it matter? As long as we're here.
Amidst this pixel domain of ink, there lays the most blunt statement of all--this writer's thoughts belong to you.
I belong to you, my quixotic communist...