Work is being difficult. I keep looking at the calendar for some hope of relief in the form of a vacation. I’d like to spend a week in bed. With company - hers, in truth. Warm and funky all week long - Her hair all fucked up, breaks in sex where she walks around my room in one of my dress shirts. I don’t care about beaches. Fuck tropical climates. Give me a week with no phones. No communication that has to ring or beep to get my attention.

No phones. Lots of sex. Coffee. And a cool climate to run in each morning. And my bed to sleep in. That is my next vacation.

[http://randomtruth.net/blog/Music/LoveRemembered.mp3] - Love Remembered, Wojciech Kilar.

If there is a heaven for people like me, I’d like it to be done the same as my bedroom - black, wine and what my decorator called - ‘orgasmic cream.’ (The reason behind that name is a story for another time.) I wouldn’t mind the traditional sense of heaven, complete with angels and halos, as long as they opted for the darker colors and shades. White hurts my eyes when I am tired and bespeaks of innocence I long ago lost.

I imagine that their fingers would know the notes of ‘Love Remembered,’ a song written by Wojciech Kilar, and that they would play it in soft, muted tones as I lay back and forgot the troubles of this world. The piece inspires a lazy sense of sleep - that haze we walk through just before our minds cease in their toil.

Chaos and pain are unknown here. The need for urgency is forgotten. When my eyes would open from the rest that was so denied me here, I would fall into warm, crystal clear water and remember her face as she cried.

Have you ever had the discussion about who’s fault it is that the relationship is ending? Rather, who is pushing, or who is walking out?

I don’t know, sure seems like there is no chance anyone is going to win that debate.

Almost seems humorous.

There’s that fucking word again. Cold.

It doesn’t bother me to know that I am. It doesn’t bother me to hear the word from anyone’s lips - but hers. Cold. How can she think me cold? I burn when she is near. Even her voice, her scent consumes me - pushes me to devour her whole. I am cold? Not when she is near. My palms itch to dig into her thighs as I fuck her. My mouth yearns to taste my name cried out upon her lips. My fingers ache to wrap themselves in the raven silk of her hair. I crave the taste of her slick folds across the flat of my tongue. I want to bring her to the edge and shove her over. Carve my nails into her skin.

Neruda, I understand.

It is in words that I am cold. Tone. And when a look can’t communicate my love - I am left with words. It is in distance that we struggle. And words can’t bridge the gap. She can’t guess my emotions - and I read her every inflection like a 2,000 page book. Cursed with education - I take shelter in my mind; and how my mind works to unravel those threads that tie me to her.

Cold.

Some people are meant to be alone.