3 Cigarettes was borne from this

Not sure if I’ve posted 3 Cigarettes yet (don’t think I have) but this is the skeleton of that story:

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can touch all the places I’ve ever been. I can smell the air and taste the flavors of my memory and I can see myself outside of myself. From this hotel window, my senses are dead. The room is strewn with typing paper, newspapers, pencils, beer bottles, and tissues. His clothes hang on the back of the chair limply. They have as much will to live as I.

The cigarette between my fingers burns slow and heavy in the evening light. My eyes are bleary from insomnia and alcohol and him. I watch for him without an ounce of care. He has escaped from the darkest recesses of my mind, from the very places I don’t dare tread.

When I take a drag off the cigarette, I hear the paper burn and my senses slowly come to life. Outside I know the air is pungent and sweet. Years ago, before adulthood, I spent these nights running to feel that sweet air on my face. Now I bathe in it with him, shower myself in everything he gives me and everything he takes away.

(c) 2004?

His Love

His love is like that of a damp winter’s chill, the kind that grabs a hold of you and won’t let go, even after hours in front of a fire. The chill seeps through your clothing, through your skin, down into your bones. It never lets go. You feel it for days. His love is like this. It is a love so intense that I want to devour him, consume him and make him become a part of me. I want to absorb him into my body and never be rid of him.

His is a love so dizzying and insane and consuming that I want to cry because I have lost control of myself. Lost control of my senses. I want to cry when I see his face, I want to cry when he touches me – the faintest hint of his fingertips against the inside of my wrist, even now a shiver, the cold seeps down into my heart – I want to cry when he kisses me. And in turn, I want to know every inch of him, memorize the curve of his shoulder, the lines of his chest, the unforgiving point of his elbow.

His love is being buried under a down blanket on a rainy day. His love is losing my mind in the middle of the grocery store. His love is abandoning dinner on the stove for a higher purpose, burning dinner to know he loves me completely and without hesitation. His love is forgetting myself and remembering myself in the chaotic harmonies of his rhythm, of his life. His love is sorrow and joy, mourning and celebrating, dying and living. All in one breath.

© 2003

Clocks

The clocks tick, gears sweeping past one another, and I’m seeing your fingers in my hair, your smile, your laugh. Eternity inching toward eternity, shades of gray and blue, late nights at the window, I’m seeing your face in the sky. The intricate dance as the puzzle pieces fall into place, one at a time, as time leaves us, makes us older, shreds just a little bit more of our patience. Seconds separate us, just a thin veil of moments stitched between us, I’m seeing your hand reach for mine.

© 2005
10.3.05

Untitled bit

The steady roll of the waves, the impending tides – high and low – your hands on my face. Buzzing from wine, from the sun, from the nearness of you. Away to the city, gleaming like a gold diamond in the sinking sun, the ocean resplendent – pink, purple, gold – and the walk-up we call home. There are gulls crying around us, fighting for the scraps we won’t give them. The smell of you mixed with the smell of the water, of the sand, of the world revolving below us. Like being caught on an old reel-to-reel, stuck in slow motion and black-and-white, we play on, play out, return home to our nest, nesting in each other, hands and mouths delicately placed, the explosion of emotion and the soft sigh of satisfaction. The lingering seduction of the ocean on your skin, tasting the salt spray on my tongue, drinking the water long after saying goodbye to the beach.

The perfection you achieve in my imagination. You set against San Francisco – blue eyes made bluer, exhaustion made delicious, feasting turned sensual. The perfection you achieve in my imagination is impeccable.

© 2005
1.31.05

Site business

I got a few good question suggestions from two of my loyal readers, so I’m going to start working on the answers soon. That sentence is clunky and awkward. But rest assured, I’m going to have an about me page that isn’t so lame. Just not tonight.

HALP

Okay, guys. I’ve opened up this blog to a lot of people recently (not that they’re visiting, but you know, whatever), and that means I really need an About Me page that says something more than “I’m going to add to this later.”

So…

HALP. What do you want to know about me? What do you want to know about me as a writer? What do you want to know about my writing?