he missed me after a weekend apart. and i am sick, with a fever and body aches. a tragic pain. damned virus. are you real? i still wonder. i wonder how.
i feel vulnerable in this post-weekend silence, when life ans its routine repositions me in this reality i fight to ignore during the weekends when i find myself in your biceps.
your yellow hoodie no longer smells of you. it smells me, and i disown myself. i excommunicate myself from my own body. i smell your palo santo in the yellow; your hospital scent in the pink; your musk in the blue denim i gave you.
it is now all in my own mind.
i wanted you. yesterday. on saturday. i missed you on friday. your scent is my favourite memory. i remember the touch of your rough hand. the taste of your lust. the vitamin d that sustains me.
and, for the universe’s sake, there is so much i’d like to tell you, but nothing inside me makes much sense. the words get tangled. they blur away. they loom. there is no sense to them. to me.
i’m in a hurry. i no longer have the time of my youth. nor the patience of my thirties.
and then you call, and i melt. it’s late at night. you say you miss me. the void deepens. the lack of you over the weekend. those weekends that belong to us. so much mine and yours. i’m jealous of your dog, who, at this hour of the night, shares the bed with you.
you wish me luck. my test is tomorrow in the late afternoon. you calm me. you validate me. you are real. you are free, yet you choose to return. and to stay.
in the end, you make sense.
about everything 