the night is young and filled with its constant quiet promise and i think of the things that don't need to be said, and that do. i wait for the end, and the beginning, and this is where all of us stand, in confusion, because no kind word ever placates us fully. we watch in envy, but we know the same secrets, how nothing is easy. and we keep the same secrets, hold the strongest knowledge close, can't quite phrase the words that would express dreams perfectly and without the implication of need or the longing that swims up in the event of separation.

how strange, to say he. he, in the singular sense. he, who is the only he, though he may not always be. he, who may go without the knowledge that he occurs first and last and the rest are dim reflections of what i originally sought in lying in his arms. he, who will never be my.. anything, save lover.

but now the guilt and the effected disillusionment have had sacrifices made in their names, and now i can speak honeslty. i can write verbs and nouns (nouns laced with imperfect significance) and phrases and sentences that mean what they mean and do not attempt to console the worry of potential loss. of inevitable loss. for now, i am shriven, and able to deal with the thought as happiness, the only happiness a human has, the brief and fleeting light and inspiration and thundering of heartbeats that make a life worthwhile. i can't say what tomorrow will mean, because the only thing to be truthfully said about tomorrow is that it changes everything. but tonight, the time i wait is delicious, and i feel powerful and capable and devious in my small way, and daring enough to climb mountains and make permenant indicators of my state at this moment.

a lover is a funny thing, because he is not a boyfriend or a husband, and so there remains a void to be filled, to console oneself and see that, yes, something still is desirable. to say that one can be as aloof as she pretends. (whether or not her heart feels the same.) to say that one sees what should be meaningless but enjoyable as only that and to prove it will test and test again to find the truth. and there it is, the result expected, but the soul knows what mere facts cannot speak to: that statistics are silly things that plague us with their contrived answers to the question of how things should be. though we are human, and things never are.

i wait here, for tonight it will most likely be sunshine, but at any point, the dismal rain that must come will cloud the horizon and that will be all. and this is how it goes, energetic, because we're always on the brink of collapse. but i've got the memory of being in his arms, and the sweet things people say to each other while their nakedness makes them unabashed. and i've got the kind of happiness you can't have when he isn't yours, the kind you never touch when it's a one night whirlwind and still nice, but never the same. i've got something to look forward to that i oughtn't look forward to at all, and some pain i'll have to bear that will all be worth it.