Thursday, October 21, 2010


This is the product of writing at midnight and I have no idea where it came from.

I hate how, after he’s left, I can still smell his soap on my clothes after he’s hugged me. He always smells good, not overly cologned good, but nice clean good. There was even one time, while I was crashed out on his couch that I entertained the idea of going and seeing what kind of soup he used. I’d had plenty of time considering the massive hangover I had that night. That was entirely his fault; he supplied the booze and told me to just unwind and that I could sleep there that night. He even let me have his bed. What was curious was the fact that I woke up with my head on his chest.
We have been dancing that damned courtship dance for two months, a record for both of us I’m sure. I’ve had actual relationships last less time than that. He was older than me; hence, him supplying the booze since at the lovely age of twenty I couldn’t buy it myself. He was six years older than me, if I’d been jailbait I’d understand but he argued that we were simply at different stages of our lives. I was entering my bachelors program and he was a year or two away from finishing his doctorate. Psychology majors, yeesh! He said he was getting ready to settle down and I was, well I wasn’t sure where I was.

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