understanding.

i'm not mad at her. i'm mad at myself.

all the signs i missed. all the mistakes i made.

how eager and overwhelmingly full of yearning and love i am, while lacking the savvy to control them.

i've been so quiet for so long; so hesitant in my affection that now it seems any contact and any promise of it is enough to reduce me to shrapnel, carelessly strewn over whomsoever mistakenly pulled the ring.

i don't know how to love properly.

i didn't used to think there was such a method.

i used to wear my heart on my sleeve with pride.

the fact that i could love so much, so easily, was both agonizing and binding to the sole purpose of my being.

i love so much sometimes i can't stand it.

at any sign of pain in another - any living thing - no matter how unfamiliar, that pain becomes my own and i want to rip my heart out of my chest.

let it pour out with the tears that fall at solitude's first chance.

in some way, i think, i hope that by loving this way, aching this way, i help put them at ease - that it all quietly becomes diluted, and they're relieved.

i remind myself that no matter how compassionate i may feel, i'm experiencing just a shadow of the circumstances' truest form.

but my own pain remains my own.

i keep it in my chest, feel it grow, beg for release.

but i keep it there.

i don't know why i do it.

maybe to protect others.

maybe to protect myself.

from what?

so i can love others, but no one can love me?

i'm a voyeur.

a predator.

i admire, but am ashamed to be looked at.

i prefer to savor things, people, but refuse to be touched.

too close and i pull back.

with Angela.

with family

friends.

no one can get too close.

even with [a certain someone], with all this talk of bitterness because i tried to open up to her, i know i was at fault.

i didn't really try.

not really.

i'm afraid of myself.

of what i'm capable of being, doing.

finding out what i'm incapable of being, doing.

it's why my writing's suffering, why my music and swimming stopped improving.

i'm afraid of myself.

she tried to talk about buildings.

i replied stupidly. vaguely.

even when i knew that all i think about is buildings.

secret compartments filled with hundreds of thousands of stories and thoughts i've never heard, will never hear.

entire lives, histories, undoubtedly knowing of pain and joy i've never appreciated, might never meet.

you said buildings amaze you because they were made by men; hands crafted those walls, drafted those plans.

made.

they amaze me because, after creating them, men also filled them with stories.

left marks that followers may never notice, but bear a signature; a sign of entire lives that existed there, just for a second.

a relic.

i know all about buildings.

that's all i wanted to say.

but i was scared.

scared of sounding contrived, unworthy.

of sharing thoughts i've never shared before.

i should have with you.

you would've understood.

you shivered in the night, even though you were under the covers.

without thinking, i went and grabbed another blanket, slipped it over you.

this, coupled with how you moved to my side while i was away, hesitated as i awkwardly hung halfway off the mattress, now i know that you wanted me to hold you.

touch you.

be together.

but i wasn't thinking.

or i was thinking too much.

i was too afraid to be that close.

because somehow i've convinced myself that no one would or should want to be that close to me.

i want to love, but i don't know how.

not explicitly.

my words always get lost.

my actions always restrained.

i only know how to admire.

i admire you.

i'm sorry.

spoon dream.

drunk. pardon me. an old journal entry. in my quest for catharsis and final release, i've decided to put this out there in a more permanent, however personal, space. get it out.

We're in my car at night, driving along the PCH. After several prolonged moments of hesitation, I finally reach over and take your hand. To my surprise, you return the favor, lace our fingers, place them in your lap. Your other hand caresses mine, and the warmth spreads all over.

I smile.

You smile.

Lean in and kiss me on the cheek.

Neck.

At a red light I turn to you. We kiss.

A car honks.

Several times.

Finally, we come to and start driving again.

My hand is still on your thigh, holding.

Not too firm, just enough to savor it.

But you take it and move it closer.

Up.

You start kissing my neck again.

I can barely focus on the road.

My hand moves.

Freely.

Up.

Down.

Soaking in every inch it can.

Even closer.

You sigh.

It warms my neck.

I sigh, too.

And now your hand is touching me.

I almost veer off the road and you laugh, lightly.

I feel it. It echoes.

You whisper, "Pull over."

There's light traffic and no shoulder; I have to wait for the next beach-front parking lot.

As soon as I push the gear to Park, we're kissing again.

Touching again.

All over.

You start moving over to my side.

Gradually, at first, finally pouring yourself into me.

and then you climb, gripping onto my shoulders, the back of my neck.

Everywhere.

Suddenly, you're on top.

Clumsily, I find my seat lever and lean back.

But I want to be on top.

To pour myself into you.

I straighten.

You hold me closer.

I accidentally press you into the horn, which goes off.

We laugh.

"This is a little cramped," you say. I agree.

I tell you, however anxiously, that the backseat collapses; not meaning to be presumptuous.

You smile, peck me on the cheek, and carefully cross back over.

Hastily, I get out of the car and throw the backdoor open, throwing the backseat down and climbing inside.

I rearrange things; I wasn't expecting a backseat visitor.

You laugh again, join me, put me at ease.

We meet in the middle again.

Move again.

Freer.

I feel all of you.

I give you all of me.

I want you so much, even that millimeter of fabric between us is suffocating. Restricting.

We remove every barrier, piece by piece.

Every sensation grabs me; I can feel every molecule in my body, restless.

I become overwhelmed.

By how much I want to feel you, how much I'm feeling, how much I want to give to you.

I shake.

You think I'm cold.

You hold me even closer, tighter.

Every time I feel your breath, I'm reminded of how alive you are, how grateful I am for the Big Bang that made you, brought you to me. Here, now.

I almost don't want to finish.

I could be happy feeling like this forever.

Feeling you like this.

But I know that if we don't, I might explode.

And we'd be missing the joy in every beginning.

So when you exhale one last sigh, grip me tightly and release, we finish.

I stay on top a little longer, feeling safe in your arms, between your legs, everything together.

Your eyes are closed as I kiss your neck, ear, everything within reach.

I rest my head on your chest for a few moments, feeling your heart. The rise and fall.

I kiss your stomach.

Caress everything so delicately, afraid of disturbing even the smallest atom of your perfect design.

I carefully move to the side - I'm not sure if you're asleep.

I rest an arm across your belly, the other supports your head.

You open your eyes, look at me, smile.

I kiss your smile, it kisses back.

We're naked, no blanket in sight, but I'm warm.

You turn over so we're spooning.

Your head rests right on my shoulder, you lace your fingers with mine and hold my hand on your stomach, my other arm you hold across your chest.

I breathe you in.

And we talk.

Everything I've never told anyone before, and the same goes for you.

I share thoughts I normally would've been too ashamed to confess.

We sleep awhile.

It's raining.