More words, wondering what they will say.
I find it strange and uncomforting that I so seldom write with a pen and paper anymore. There once was a time where that’s all I had, all I needed. At every stoplight writing, sometimes even while driving. I knew the way – but so much lost. Emptying my pockets of scraps of paper and bar napkins at the end of the night, a pathetic pile on my dresser or by my bed. Lost words, but thoughts were out. Tha is all I needed.

Lost, like the dreams I had then forgotten. Words thrown away, thousands.Joy, sorrow, and everything in between. So much learned, so many lessons taken in to enable me to become me. Nothing for granted, nothing I didn’t need to know or get the fuck out of me. The pen was my sword and I sliced myself down to the bones, a meticulous carving based only in the need to escape. Escape from me? Perhaps, though I’ve never wanted to, never been able to except in writing. Once it is down it makes sense, when it is down on paper or this screen I am able to escape the thoughts that…
Right now I am mesmerized by the muscles and tendons in my left wrist. I can’t describe them and the way they act in any way but – beautiful. Look at your body, the subtle ways it does everything you want it to. What I know most about her is already dead. Skin cells that we scrape of of each other in our passion. I search for what is alive and reach inside, she is wet and welcoming, she unfolds and is hungry for touch, my touch. She says that I touch her well, seem to know her, what she wants. This isn’t about her so I stop writing, for now.

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