I came to in a quad.
Framed in by walls and ivy, along with a square of pristine grass. I stumbled into a door, up flights of stairs, and through a door, into a room - and there you sat, poring over a comically thick book. I must have laughed out loud.
We hugged. It was the most natural thing to do; it was unforced, thankful, welcoming. Urgent with desire, but not lust. No sound but the whisper of fabric and gentle breathing. You felt as I remembered. Nothing under my fingers but incredible warmth and softness.
You lead me by my hand from your room; I didn't think the day would come. Across the Mathematical Bridge spanning Queens'. Along the Backs and the banks of the Cam. I talked excitedly. About, well, all that has happened. How I'm like now, what I've done. You interjected with pointed remarks, your gnomic mantras and handy aphorisms. Encouraged me with your slow smiles. You were big sister to a little brother who could not possibly comprehend sophisticated you. Then it was your turn. You would not tell me about Africa, nor him, but somehow I could not find it within myself to care. We exchanged stories. Laughed. Agreed to write to each other.
Found myself at a train platform. Left. But not without a hug, smiles, goodwill in our hearts, and fond memories. Kissing may be awesome, but what is it compared to these?
I awoke to tears and regret.
You were the only person in my life whom I felt I could trust with my heart, believe in, tell my darkest secrets too. It was irrational and selfish of me. And what had you to gain? I didn't know how to make you trust me in the same way. You said it best; you always did. "It just doesn't happen." We were together for such a short time, and yet you understood me more than anyone ever did. There was no attractiveness in the insecurity you found within me.
I have nothing left but an idea of you, spirited from the happiest point in my life. A sometime muse - Beatrice, with all her beauty and intellect, to an exceptionally dull and untalented Dante. But above all, a confidante, whom I speak to in hushed tones in the darkest hours of doubt. No more than a ghost, a manifestation of my delusion and desire.
Sometimes, it is simply not enough. I suppose that is why I have this blog. Largely private, and hidden from most of the world, it is privy to a readership in the low tens, a minority of which knows me enough to know of what or whom I speak of. The others are strangers, simply drawn to my perplexing and curious thoughts and ways.
Perhaps I write in the hope that you will someday find this place, in which I have enshrined memories worth remembering, dreams worth dreaming, and thoughts worth thinking. It will not change a thing. You will not think any more highly of me. But having read my words and touched my thoughts, to know of what and how I feel once more - you will have become my confidante once again.
That is all I can hope for.
----
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
We hugged. It was the most natural thing to do; it was unforced, thankful, welcoming. Urgent with desire, but not lust. No sound but the whisper of fabric and gentle breathing. You felt as I remembered. Nothing under my fingers but incredible warmth and softness.
You lead me by my hand from your room; I didn't think the day would come. Across the Mathematical Bridge spanning Queens'. Along the Backs and the banks of the Cam. I talked excitedly. About, well, all that has happened. How I'm like now, what I've done. You interjected with pointed remarks, your gnomic mantras and handy aphorisms. Encouraged me with your slow smiles. You were big sister to a little brother who could not possibly comprehend sophisticated you. Then it was your turn. You would not tell me about Africa, nor him, but somehow I could not find it within myself to care. We exchanged stories. Laughed. Agreed to write to each other.
Found myself at a train platform. Left. But not without a hug, smiles, goodwill in our hearts, and fond memories. Kissing may be awesome, but what is it compared to these?
I awoke to tears and regret.
You were the only person in my life whom I felt I could trust with my heart, believe in, tell my darkest secrets too. It was irrational and selfish of me. And what had you to gain? I didn't know how to make you trust me in the same way. You said it best; you always did. "It just doesn't happen." We were together for such a short time, and yet you understood me more than anyone ever did. There was no attractiveness in the insecurity you found within me.
I have nothing left but an idea of you, spirited from the happiest point in my life. A sometime muse - Beatrice, with all her beauty and intellect, to an exceptionally dull and untalented Dante. But above all, a confidante, whom I speak to in hushed tones in the darkest hours of doubt. No more than a ghost, a manifestation of my delusion and desire.
Sometimes, it is simply not enough. I suppose that is why I have this blog. Largely private, and hidden from most of the world, it is privy to a readership in the low tens, a minority of which knows me enough to know of what or whom I speak of. The others are strangers, simply drawn to my perplexing and curious thoughts and ways.
Perhaps I write in the hope that you will someday find this place, in which I have enshrined memories worth remembering, dreams worth dreaming, and thoughts worth thinking. It will not change a thing. You will not think any more highly of me. But having read my words and touched my thoughts, to know of what and how I feel once more - you will have become my confidante once again.
That is all I can hope for.
----
The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
But when I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
So I hung my head and I cried.
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