Some people are easily overwhelmed by emotion. It wears me out to even try and have conversations in which I disagree with a point.
I am: Logic. What is. Resolve the conflict and move along.
They are: Emotional response. What should be. Drag it out as long as possible.
Naturally, I conclude that we are different minds with incompatible communication styles. There is nothing for it.
Such is life.
Move along.
“Get in my play zone.”
“I want to kinect with you.”
“Your buttons are sticky.”
“Jump like that again.”
“You need to throttle it more.”
“How many times did you thrust while you played?”
“Get in my play zone.”
“I want to kinect with you.”
“Your buttons are sticky.”
“Jump like that again.”
“You need to throttle it more.”
“How many times did you thrust while you played?”
Some people are easily overwhelmed by emotion. It wears me out to even try and have conversations in which I disagree with a point.
I am: Logic. What is. Resolve the conflict and move along.
They are: Emotional response. What should be. Drag it out as long as possible.
Naturally, I conclude that we are different minds with incompatible communication styles. There is nothing for it.
Such is life.
Move along.
All those words. Countless. Would have never been enough.
Would have done this, would have done that. Would have played in bed, would have had you on knees with your hair in hand, would have been between your thighs before there was any light to be guided by. Born again to the rise of your hips and bite of your ass. Would have touched you just so. Would have trust.
Would hear your voice outside my head. Your trembling whispers here.
Would have been there after one of your crippling bad dreams. Would have warmed you in the shivering fall. Would have kissed you in the dark. Would have held your hand to my heart.
Would have stopped pretending and romanticizing. Would have you.
There’s no getting over anything. There is forgetting the would have and thinking of the will or will not.
All those words. Countless. Would have never been enough.
Would have done this, would have done that. Would have played in bed, would have had you on knees with your hair in hand, would have been between your thighs before there was any light to be guided by. Born again to the rise of your hips and bite of your ass. Would have touched you just so. Would have trust.
Would hear your voice outside my head. Your trembling whispers here.
Would have been there after one of your crippling bad dreams. Would have warmed you in the shivering fall. Would have kissed you in the dark. Would have held your hand to my heart.
Would have stopped pretending and romanticizing. Would have you.
There’s no getting over anything. There is forgetting the would have and thinking of the will or will not.
I wouldn’t say I’m racked, but there is a guilt-like unease. A frank discussion is in order and you don’t seem the type to be alright with a man who’s still in recovery. You deserve full attention, not wandering thoughts and comparisons.
A confession is selfish in conception, perhaps, but truth’s got to have some value to it.
Furniture stores, those that are built to be a furniturial wonderland, are a whirlwind. It’s a matter of this looks good, but then there’s that one, and a better finish, and shelves and lamps, along with the dresser, don’t forget that. Leather, pleather, mircrofiber. Chairs at every corner.
They get you when you sit or lie down. That’s when it gets to being comfortable, and you get to thinking you can splurge and buy a farm house’s worth of shit for a modest two-bedroom place.
Were I less resolute I would have felt bad when I finally told the salesperson I “simply want a bed frame and a big chair, big as hell. Something good for reading.”
“Oh, but what about a nice sofa? This one here is amazing for watching television, or having people over, and it would look excellent as part of—”
“No, thanks. Just the bed frame and that chair right there.”
A nice number, rich fabric and leather. The old man chair I’ve always wanted.
“But you said your living room was empty?”
“There’s a desk and its chair, the book shelves, and now,” with a pat on the leather, “this chair, and that bed frame on top of it. I’ve got all I need.”
“No bed?”
I harrumphed. “That was the first thing I bought.”
She shied away and glanced toward the chair. “Perhaps you’ll be back later, then. And we’ve always got financing.”
Sales people.
“Perhaps,” I said, and as she went on about finding out when they could deliver my stuff I sat down in the chair. I dug my fingers into the arms and reclined it as far back as I could go.
What’s invariably difficult is conveying that I do care—that I am listening—without seeming false or dispassionate. I am ruled by self-restraint in most matters, and have no desire to become someone who is always providing insincere reassurances. My attempts at this have never been successful.
Knowing what I know of myself, and of the people I most often want in my life, it simply makes more sense to be there. In the flesh.
Physical connection is my saving grace.
What’s invariably difficult is conveying that I do care—that I am listening—without seeming false or dispassionate. I am ruled by self-restraint in most matters, and have no desire to become someone who is always providing insincere reassurances. My attempts at this have never been successful.
Knowing what I know of myself, and of the people I most often want in my life, it simply makes more sense to be there. In the flesh.
Physical connection is my saving grace.