I dream of lithe fingers and waifish you, I dream of erstwhile moments and how you looked, precariously poised on the rag outside your door as I smoked, I dream of cricket blessed nights and your tiny hands. I ponder the temporal order and sometimes I am thrown to despair, other times I swell with hope. You are always on my mind, but never gratingly so, you are like a pinprick of light that shimmers but never falters. So I shall lavish in my misery and wrestle the days as men do straws. I have consigned myself to an eternity of ponderous waiting. In this interim period, I will be too feverishly impoverished of You to notice any women, I will temper the sensuous pleasures of psychotropic mindfuckery, for all I have of you are memories. I wait, but not without the immediacy of action. I wait, and regress into the flickering cinema of memory, all the celluloid of my mind knows is the mise en scene of you, me, slivers of light and breathing. I wait, I wait, for the inevitable denouement of You, again. I will not scarper from this torpor until You, again.
I used to think of love as shackles, despair and the gnashing of teeth, I wanted nothing to do with it, until the incongruity of you came along.
What have you gone and done..
love,
christopher