Fucking darkness. Exertion burns in the flesh of my back and it’s on. I’m running. Breathless. Unseen branches and thorns tear at the skin of my arms and thighs. Blood. Guttural exhalations from my lower register like a growl. Madness. It’s behind me now. Legs are heavy. Feet sink in mud and catch on dead falls. I stumble. On all fours I’m fighting for purchase to keep momentum moving me forward. Then I stop and turn. Come on. COME ON! Fucker. Is this it? I’m all about this, motherfucker! I’m all about this. Come on! BRING IT!

Her hand is on the side of my face.

“Motherfucker!”

“Shh! It’s okay! I’m here. I’m here!”

Light. Her face is in front of me.

“It’s okay, baby! You’re just having a dream. It’s just a dream.”

She kisses my forehead.

“You have to get out of here. It’s coming. It’s coming….”

“No, baby. You’re just having a dream.”

She’s looks into my eyes, then glances at my forehead to brush the hair from my brow with her hand. Softly, she kisses me then begins to pulls away, but I gently stop her retreat with a hand below her ear and around the nape of her neck. I pull her face back towards mine and kiss her lips three times. Softly. Urgently.

“I love you so much. I’d stick my hand into a fire for you.”

She rolls until her back is turned towards me and she presses herself against my chest. I pull her body into mine. She smells like gardenias. Her hair brushes against my face as I kiss her shoulder and the back of her neck. Her ass is cradled between my thighs and stomach and I’m pressed hard against her.

“I know that you do. I love you too, baby.”

The doors and windows in the bedroom are closed tightly, but a cold breeze drifts across my back, making the hair on my arms and neck stand up. I press my face against her shoulder to feel the warmth of her skin against my cheek and lips.

“I won’t let anything come between us. I would die for you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

you know.

yeah.

seriously?

yep.

you mean it!

oh, i get it.

no?!

oh yeah.

you do?

of course.

i doubt it.

really!

c’mon, you’re pulling my leg?

who me?

who else?

well, it’s kinda confusing.

i knew it! you don’t do you?

i’m kidding. i get it.

you don’t!

i do.

what did it mean?

it was….

see! you don’t…you don’t get it!

okay, you got me.

but you told me you…

…i was trying to be…

…rude! that’s what you were trying to be.

okay.

okay what?

i don’t get it.

no kidding!

not the thing…this.

what?

this thing…you.

what about me?

now you don’t get it.

I do, too!

really?

yes.

what’s it mean?

it means i’m leaving now.

oh, don’t go. this was just getting fun.

just shut up, okay?

sometimes i just…jeez…i really don’t get you at all.

oh, no kidding.

heh. comments on the where you been post:

“who where you talking to?”

“no one. it’s fiction.”

“oh…it was cute.”

“so you weren’t into it, eh?”

“is everything you write fiction?”

“nope. some of it is sort of creative journaling.”

“i don’t get it.”

“i’m pretty sure you don’t need to.”

“oh. well, it was cute.”

except for this:

A “This play is one minute long.”

B “Does it adhere to a conventional sense of story?”

A “In as much as it has to, it does.”

B “I…I don’t think that even means anything.”

A “It will if you read the play.”

B “You’re complex. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

A “I love you, too!”

B …

A “What’s wrong? It feels like we’ve drifted apart.”

B “I can’t respect you because you love me.”

A “Please, if you just give us a chance I think we can work this out.”

B “I’m leaving you.”

A “If you leave me I don’t think I can go on…”

B “You’re pathetic. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

A “You’ve changed. You’ve let your friends come between us. I’ll never forgive you for this betrayal. I hate you. You disgust me.”

B “I…I think I’m falling back in love with you.”

A …

touch…like tai chi or rocking a balance board. the art of discerning the center perhaps…she flirts like the brush of a feather across my face.

a library. a wardrobe. reading. writing. love: love of self; love for the other. slowly, i am editing out the disordered, writing this story. becoming. self. other. revised. written.

i prefer to type while standing and walk between bouts of writing. my muse, it appears, is inspired by motion. thinking is motion, moving is its complement. i am in motion, therefore i am.

every word is wrong tonight.

they say absence makes the heart grow fonder…yeah, no. the truth is, sometimes absence makes you realize some shit isn’t worth missing. i hope i haven’t been away for too long…will write more tomorrow or the next day.

there’s music on the radio. i move around the room. textbook. i read a page and move on…fold laundry…run up stairs…chase a soccer ball around the house. dumbbells are scattered on the floor. stop. lift. count. 1-2-3…sets of 12. motion. a flurry of ideas. words are crafted to fit context. thoughts flow from introspection to writing. i feel the dialogue of a story. compiled. the languages of history and fiction overlap in my imaginings:

“Do you miss me?”

“Why?”

“I just thought…”

“It’s better not to think about it…some memories should be forgotten.”

“But I want to know…do you…”

“No.”

“You don’t miss me?”

“Oh, I thought…no…look, it’s better not to think about it. I don’t think about it.”

“But why? Why not!”

“Because if I think about you I’ll feel it all again…everything. I felt those things for a long time after you were gone, then one day I put your memory into my clasped hands and held it until all that was left was a breeze. When I let it go it flew out, singing a passage through the woods and fields. Its tune filled the place where I kept your memory. This is my gift to you.”

a new song comes on the radio. the music pulls me back. there are more things to be done. motion. once i finish i have to get ready. friends are slated for for an evening out. everything is motion.