Blinded
A Kiss
I love him. I actually love him. Heart-aching, stomach-turning, nauseating love keeps pressing my body to do weird things – like blushing when I hear his footsteps or scorch my insides with a burning desire whenever he’s not around.
The latter happens a lot. It has happened a lot lately.
I miss him.
Right now I’m standing in front of his empty bunk. I wanted to check if he was there – maybe talk to him – but he’s left. I didn’t even hear him leave. I don’t even know where he goes. Maybe he just sits a few feet away from the bus – seeing me every time I come down the steps of the bus, walk around to the front as I hold on to the dirty metal, before I light up a cigarette.
I must look stupid to him – pathetic. Or to anyone, really. After all, how often do you see a guy smoking while having a firm hold of the bus he’s standing next to?
Sometimes a lean up against the bus – just to pretend that I’m not blind.
It’s been a month now. A month with nothing to look at. A month with nothing but performances, empathetic fans, pitiful interviewers and my own vivid imagination.
I keep seeing myself as being blind – permanently. I’d have to dictate my lyrics. I’d have to move in with someone – probably back home with my parents at first. I’d have to get a white cane – not that I’d be able to see it, so the color wouldn’t matter. I’d have to give up drawing. I’d never see the beauty of a filled arena again. I’d never see the fans’ reaction to a new song ever again.
I’d never see anything again.
I’d never see Frank again.
I lean forwards slowly and bury my face in Frank’s abandoned sheets. I inhale a long breath through my nose – sniffing in his gorgeous scent. I love the smell of Frank’s sheets. I’ve never really smelled them before – well, not the sheets, but I’ve smelled his scent before, obviously – but I’m already addicted to it. It comforts me. Just for a split second, being blind doesn’t matter. The image of little beads of sweet sweat from his forehead rubbing into the fabric of his pillow makes me forget about everything but him.
I miss him so much.
I love him. I really do. I really, fucking do love him.
I lift my head and search around for his pillow. I sniff it. I place a soft kiss to the intoxicating fabric, before I put it back where I found it.
Then I turn around and crawl back into my own lonely, scentless bunk.
The latter happens a lot. It has happened a lot lately.
I miss him.
Right now I’m standing in front of his empty bunk. I wanted to check if he was there – maybe talk to him – but he’s left. I didn’t even hear him leave. I don’t even know where he goes. Maybe he just sits a few feet away from the bus – seeing me every time I come down the steps of the bus, walk around to the front as I hold on to the dirty metal, before I light up a cigarette.
I must look stupid to him – pathetic. Or to anyone, really. After all, how often do you see a guy smoking while having a firm hold of the bus he’s standing next to?
Sometimes a lean up against the bus – just to pretend that I’m not blind.
It’s been a month now. A month with nothing to look at. A month with nothing but performances, empathetic fans, pitiful interviewers and my own vivid imagination.
I keep seeing myself as being blind – permanently. I’d have to dictate my lyrics. I’d have to move in with someone – probably back home with my parents at first. I’d have to get a white cane – not that I’d be able to see it, so the color wouldn’t matter. I’d have to give up drawing. I’d never see the beauty of a filled arena again. I’d never see the fans’ reaction to a new song ever again.
I’d never see anything again.
I’d never see Frank again.
I lean forwards slowly and bury my face in Frank’s abandoned sheets. I inhale a long breath through my nose – sniffing in his gorgeous scent. I love the smell of Frank’s sheets. I’ve never really smelled them before – well, not the sheets, but I’ve smelled his scent before, obviously – but I’m already addicted to it. It comforts me. Just for a split second, being blind doesn’t matter. The image of little beads of sweet sweat from his forehead rubbing into the fabric of his pillow makes me forget about everything but him.
I miss him so much.
I love him. I really do. I really, fucking do love him.
I lift my head and search around for his pillow. I sniff it. I place a soft kiss to the intoxicating fabric, before I put it back where I found it.
Then I turn around and crawl back into my own lonely, scentless bunk.
♠ ♠ ♠
Did the title fool you? Am I being mean?I just wanted to update again. You wanna comment again? Pleaaase? =)