Saturday, September 3, 2011

To The Boy On The Ugly Brown Chair

I want you to kiss me.

I want you to kiss me, but you’re just sitting there in that stupid brown chair, the ugly one with the orange cushion that’s supposed to hide the stains but only makes them more noticeable. You’re sitting there on the chair, and I’m here on the couch, and there’s really only the space of a few feet between us, and it doesn’t have to be that way. In seconds there could be no space between us at all, and your face could be right next to mine, and you could kiss me.

But we sit.

Goddamn it all, we sit.

I didn’t understand until just now how you can be hungry with something other than your stomach. That it’s not just your mouth that has the cravings, or your throat that feels the thirst. This is in my bones, and in my organs, in my skin - every layer, every part. I didn’t know you could feel hunger with your body like this, and my mind is nearly numb with the fight for self control.

Your hair is doing this thing where it’s somehow springier than usual, like it has a life of its own. It’s begging for someone to comb their fingers through it. My fingers, my hungry hands! It looks so soft and dark. Your eyes are doing this thing where they crinkle at the corners, and you’re smiling this mischievous smile, and my eyes, my thirsty eyes, drink you in, and I can’t help it. I lean forward just a little, shrink the space between us by a fraction.

You say something wonderful, and I laugh.

Kiss me, you idiot. I don’t say it out loud, but it’s there, in the way I’m sitting, in the way I’m looking at you, in the way I’m nodding and smiling. Kiss me, you fool.

But that stupid brown chair. That awful cushion. This wretched air. There’s too much between us, and you’re standing like you’re going to say goodnight, and I hate the night, and I hate most of all the leaving. I want to punch something, but instead I pinch my thigh hard enough to leave a bruise. I want to scream, but I settle for a sarcastic comment as I lean in for a goodbye hug.

This is a good thing, at least. The hug. The space between us closes, your arms lace around me, hands resting lightly, briefly on my back. It feels good. Could I freeze this moment indefinitely? Your hands, that slight touch - the wobbly, tingly, unsettlingly-wonderful glow I feel all seems to stem from there. Or maybe it’s your chin on my shoulder, the way your rumpled shirt smells so much like you. Hungry. Aren’t you hungry the same way I am?

But we part, and you leave. The door shuts. I curse aloud.

I’m going to kick that ugly chair until it’s splinters and stuffing. I’m going to bite these unkissed lips until they bleed.

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