This is old, too.

I watched The Science of Sleep again tonight. Stephanie, Stephane.
Stephane, Stephanie.
I love that movie. It wakes every cell of my body.
We live - you know - in the short breaths we catch in between moves,
in between life.
I hold my breath on purpose. I like to feel the need for air until I
can't hold it anymore.
I lay on the floor, I play with my hair, I make noises with my moist
lips and roll my tongue.
I look at my legs, look at my arms, touch my collarbones and look down
at my legs again and I feel beautiful. I look at my skirt and I wish
it was gone. I wish it was laying on the floor next to my blouse and
one or two nice thoughts for you.
I look at the ceiling and wholeheartedly wish the fan would work a
little better and made the heat a little easier to deal with.
I look at my hands and they are not in the appropiate place. My palms
rest on the floor. I can feel the humidity coming up and swimming
through. I take a deep breath.
I open my eyes and here I am alone, but not really.
I see hands that do not want to hurt me, hands that desperatedly try
to find their way through my hair, hands that want to trace my body,
hands that wish the warmth of a lover.
And I touch my collarbones again to remind myself I'm real, and those
eyes look at me. Kind of like haunting me. But more like admiring me.
And I simply cannot have that.
So I rip those eyes off and let them lie on the floor, next to my skirt
in a world where wishes come true.

--

May 2007