onlysweetpea
Bluelighter
The flurry of activity inside Cafe Abir tonight is 8 times livelier than a Tuesday night at Zeitgeist. Last Tuesday... Nina Simone’s ‘Sinnerman’, a pint of Stella and a smoker’s cough was all I owned. Wielding a wild pen, a sharp sardonic tongue, one eye raised…
You were looking at me.
And then you looked down and scribbled something in a book.
Hey! I wanted to say. That’s what I do!
Sometime between June and the Now, you’ve stolen my shtick, my gimmick, the one thing that keeps me mildly interesting.
I write like I’m taking notes on the moment. Mapping out where I am, like I’m recreating my exact experience. Most of it comes out much like an internal grocery list. Must remember to buy milk and water the plants. Shit like that. But no one’s got to know.
Since when did you write in a notebook? I’ve seen you furiously type political essays to post on various websites, your fingers tapping faster that anything I’ve ever seen. You were always so mad about something. Except when you were stoned. Then you were just horny. Your long fingers that poured forth via keyboard soapbox Chomsky-esque rantings, that struck bar chords on your guitar, those fingers would reach up my neck, through the hair on the base of my skull, curl and close round and tug lightly. Like I knew it, I’d tilt my head back and you’d move in for the kill. You’d kiss me open mouthed in lit movie theaters before the previews, in alleys near the bar, in the back of the bus.
That was your shtick, your gimmick, the one thing that kept you mildly interesting.
You kiss like you’re taking notes on the moment, like you're mapping out exactly where you’d like to go later, when we were home…or at least in my stairwell.
But I guess I shouldn’t complain. While you’ve decided to take to writing in dark, dank Mission bars, I guess I’ve taken to slithering close to my lovers sides and silently, all stealth and precision, I’d reach my hand up, wrap my fingers around the napes of their necks and steal my way to paradise like a cocky, smug son of a bitch, taking without asking.
For a brief moment, I know how it feels to be a man. And I can only assume, you now know, what it is like to be me.
I can’t tell if you’ve liked it so far. Being alone, chronicling your thoughts. It’s a lot harder, isn’t it? Facing yourself. It’s a lot harder than spouting out diatribes about the government, the environment, the universe outside of you, isn’t it? And you can probably see it in my face too. For I’ve learned it’s a lot harder to make the first move and wear the pants in each torrid affair.
My dearheart, we’re both rather weary these days, aren’t we?
You were looking at me.
And then you looked down and scribbled something in a book.
Hey! I wanted to say. That’s what I do!
Sometime between June and the Now, you’ve stolen my shtick, my gimmick, the one thing that keeps me mildly interesting.
I write like I’m taking notes on the moment. Mapping out where I am, like I’m recreating my exact experience. Most of it comes out much like an internal grocery list. Must remember to buy milk and water the plants. Shit like that. But no one’s got to know.
Since when did you write in a notebook? I’ve seen you furiously type political essays to post on various websites, your fingers tapping faster that anything I’ve ever seen. You were always so mad about something. Except when you were stoned. Then you were just horny. Your long fingers that poured forth via keyboard soapbox Chomsky-esque rantings, that struck bar chords on your guitar, those fingers would reach up my neck, through the hair on the base of my skull, curl and close round and tug lightly. Like I knew it, I’d tilt my head back and you’d move in for the kill. You’d kiss me open mouthed in lit movie theaters before the previews, in alleys near the bar, in the back of the bus.
That was your shtick, your gimmick, the one thing that kept you mildly interesting.
You kiss like you’re taking notes on the moment, like you're mapping out exactly where you’d like to go later, when we were home…or at least in my stairwell.
But I guess I shouldn’t complain. While you’ve decided to take to writing in dark, dank Mission bars, I guess I’ve taken to slithering close to my lovers sides and silently, all stealth and precision, I’d reach my hand up, wrap my fingers around the napes of their necks and steal my way to paradise like a cocky, smug son of a bitch, taking without asking.
For a brief moment, I know how it feels to be a man. And I can only assume, you now know, what it is like to be me.
I can’t tell if you’ve liked it so far. Being alone, chronicling your thoughts. It’s a lot harder, isn’t it? Facing yourself. It’s a lot harder than spouting out diatribes about the government, the environment, the universe outside of you, isn’t it? And you can probably see it in my face too. For I’ve learned it’s a lot harder to make the first move and wear the pants in each torrid affair.
My dearheart, we’re both rather weary these days, aren’t we?
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