distance (part twenty-three)

You are the subject of the current half-hearted battle between my conscience and my libido.
You have never paid this much attention to me,
and the reward at the end of it won't be immediately "earned,"
so,

What are you doing?

And maybe you don't wax poetic as much as I do, as much as you wax realistic.
I want nothing more right now than to find my way to the cabin, open the front door to find you all alone, with a highball glass in your hand, one of the hands that knows me too well, drain the rest of your Jameson, and push you into your bedroom.
Goddammit.

Of course, I'm projecting all the feelings I have for someone else--
      the main subject of all these outpourings of poetic insanity--
onto you.
All the physical tuggings, all the emotional yearnings.
The funny thing is that I learned how to separate doing and feeling from you, from the first time we fooled around, the first time I tasted coffee and cigarettes in a kiss.
And now, I could have fun with you, and go away within an hour afterwards no worse for wear.

You weren't the hammer that shattered the glass heart, but you cracked it a little more than the first kiss.
You taught me too much.

You said I was miles away when you were in one place, and now that you're in your second home, I seem like a neighbor.
Maybe it's because this area is my territory. You're playing on my home turf.

This isn't the first time you said you've thought about me when you passed by, or through.
This wouldn't be the first time you've passed by, or through, me.

I'm glad I don't want the attachment that can come with the act from you.
You would wreck me.

-Dana Winter