You took your hard earned life out of my easy arms, and I sleep through the fire as they sound the alarms. Did you see all the lights as they scatter and flash? Did you feel every burn while I withered to ash? Never knowing what to do, because somebody burned you too.
You are not the first shot, the tough and terrible one. You are not the second shot, the rush to be somewhere I’ve been before. You were the third shot; I smile and flirt with a world that dangles on my fingertips.
“I enjoy skinny-dipping, because I’m comfortable in the nude. When I was a kid there wasn’t a huge delineation in our family between having clothes on or not having clothes on. And the reason I have so much fun doing it now is people are so shocked by it, and like, ‘Oh my God, Fox just took his clothes off!’ But I mean, just how long ago was it that we were all wandering around in loin cloths?”—Matthew Fox (via brotha) (via rhymeswithreality, myconstantisyou) (via lifeasastoner)
It’s gotten easier to handle Danny now. I spend less time agonizing over his phone number on my touch screen. I don’t wonder as much if it’s right to contact him. I just don’t do it. If I do, I make sure to think as little as possible about what I’m saying to him. Cool strategy, bro.
I am trying this approach out where I don’t let myself contaminate the passion to impulse that he still gives me. Why? Because my impulses liberate me from the paralyzing terror. When Danny’s got me all happy and shit, I am everything I love about myself turned up to an 11. I like who I am when he flips my switch. I’m Super Bobby.
So I deal with it, by not thinking about it. Keeping myself moving faster than a speeding bullet past those dreadful thoughts that get me all sentimental—because I have to.
I feel like I have to keep moving like those cement trucks, because if I pause for too long I’ll harden up into crushable concrete. Cry, Bobby. Cry.
So it’s cool I guess. I can still laugh genuinely like jolly old friends. Yeah, it’s cool. I can remember funny shit, and just get happy enough where I don’t panic and wonder where my life is going with him in it. If I’m going through my pictures, I can enjoy the good times. Focus on that, Bobby.
On occassion, I fuck up. Something a little too funny crossed my mind. Too happy. Too silly, or sweet, or worse: something sexy as fuck makes me revel in my thoughts. I pause, and do the worst thing a person in love can do: think.
I get pulled into a cruel daydream where I imagine myself on top of him again. I remember what it feels like to force a smile out of him when he’s pretending to be asleep. I remember how it feels to spoon him right after a drunk shower. In the dark, the draft of the A.C. on my cool, wet skin is much more intense. He pulls my ass down onto his stiff dick yet keeps his hands and arms above the waistband of my underwear. I still feel like a lady with his erection up against my ghetto ass. My hair is still kind of wet, so a drop of water runs down my neck and it catches his breath as he exhales.
I wonder what my face looks like right before I snap out of it. I bet I look like that all the time around him.
And then the terror strikes me like a rattlesnake in the bed. Why the fuck do I fuck with my own head so much? That’s not his fault, that’s all me. I choose to give in to the temptation to think about him because it still gets me high. I have a natural tendency to daydream. Then, self-loathing washes over me like high tide. My brain is kryptonite. The Bobby dial falls from 11 to 3.
Yet, I’ll deal with it. I admit that I don’t know why I do. Honestly, I’ve passed too much time just thinking of having a cathartic moment with him.
So no more thinking, Bobby. And no more writing. (Yea, right.)