On relocations.

My love holds me close at night and whispers in the big, smoked room,

“I miss your old apartment,”

That dark place, that low-ceilinged excuse for a dwelling wrenched from the arms of the most beautiful days in Africa, in Paris, in Pays-Bas, in Belgium, in Germany, extracted from the sky and plunked down in the middle of a snowstorm, supported by air and polyester, she misses it because she says we fell in love there, and I warm, because I can admit that, I can see the facts, nose them out, burrow into her and thrash in the night.


However steadfast of an anchor she is, I’m far worse at being a buoy. I drift, I drift, I ding my bell in its tinny shriek and in my bright colors, serve as a warning, a beacon. There are new and there are old, plenty of bites and I want them all. There’s the dashing submissive transman, a competitive biker. The Olympian has resurfaced, confessing sleepless nights and a cruel streak waiting to flash, The Filmmaker with reels of film and a professed lust for topping. All of these people, I want their bodies, I want their beating hearts under mine for brief instants. And then I want to be alone. The ebb, the flow of this is consistent. It works.

Drinks ensue this week with The Photographer. We’re good when we drink. I have fond memories of warming up in bars together.

The Connection is in my quiver, but I’m trying not to shoot myself in the foot this time. To admit a vulnerability would be another fedora on her hatrack.

I listen to The Query’s CD on my commute from work to home and sing along with ‘Famine Affair,’ realizing that I am gorging myself, realizing that I am starving her, and I swallow it before I open the door.


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