2001-09-12 || 5:05 p.m.

|| love hangovers ||

i imagine the next time someone comes around (months and months will have passed. i always have cold hands. i talk differently, quietly, conspiratorially. i shun sofas to sit on floors. i make the first move only in the awkwardest of spaces, brushing my lips on faces moving away to read the price of soup in the supermarket) they will find my habits idiosyncratic but endearing. they will smudge circles into the dust collecting on my window panes to show me the outside. they will throw open curtains and organize dishes. tell me i have too many blankets on the bed. they will feel the need to physically direct me from one action to the other, steering me with my shoulders like a wayward sailboat being brought back on course. they will grow weary from competing with the conversations i am having with myself, some audible, some apparent by erratic blinking and nodding and unconscious biting of the lip. they will consider me a challenge, breaking me down, putting pieces back, arranging neurotransmitters and synapses so that they fire differently.

i have ideas of what will make me like this. the mornings of getting up to the alarm and your arm sliding heavy and asleep onto my chest so that i won't get out of bed, not just yet. shared heat trapped under blankets. the way we stopped to look at each other (suspending time, planets hanging in the balance over our heads just inches from ceiling) before going in for another kiss. the driving home on the freeway early in the morning with the radio loud, swerving while craning my neck to see the marks you have made. the space of time after all this where i am left empty again, wanting to cry, wanting to hibernate, willing myself to believe sex and emotion are not at all connected.

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