found this looking back through the stuff i save on my e-mail drafts.
not very long ago.
i thought it was interesting.

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july 18, early early night-morning

i feel funny. almost like i'm nervous.
like my soul is on vibrate and someone keeps calling.
i must be in love.
it's too bad i don't have anybody to be in love with.
it can't be possible.

my emotional black hole keeps sucking all sorts of stuff from my extremities and i think it made a few holes,
'cause i feel cold fast air rushing through my sternum. i'm gonna cry, i'm so lonely.
my logical support system says it's sex so i look up romance stories.
stupid every freakin' one is about sex and dirty people and beaches and filth.
i want something quiet, a deaf, blaring beauty.
a city romance, wild, thirsty, lost cold teenagers caught up in the crescending rush of life and music and drunkenness.
but always with time to say shhh, and think about how pretty one another's eyes are.
i can't believe some people have sex without kissing.
that the bitches prepare for that kind of thing.
schedule in their evening fuck right between the drugstore visit and a sober ride home.
sex isn't what i need.
i just need not to be alone.
is there not anyone else in the world who has been alone and lonely?
and didn't write shit songs about it?
i really can't take this solitude anymore. i need some emotional support. i need to touch.
i need my soul to break and my heart to glow and race and to sneeze in the sacred face of an unpredictable provider. who will take me by surprise and scare me like a good long fall on the swing. thrills of fear and sneeze sneeze sneeze hormones.
very very candid face. i never want to get bored.
and so scared and playful.
not alone, but in groups and threes and school masses.
always awkward and subtle. ambiguity marking hidden embarassment coupled with the thrill of action.
touches lasting just short enough and recorded and tracked and supervised by your steady conscious
while you laugh and are nonchalant and a lying, deceiving, cool, cool mess to the onlooking.
and at night when your head meets the pillow the cork pops out all over again and your mind is stuck on replay, replay, replay....
and you forget the face every time it's away, remembering only that you panicked at the sight of it, a panic of joy and precipice, and wanting to feel that again. craving to see this source of explosive breathstoppingness that your deluded mind is convinced it's a virgin to while your eyes know better.