I am sitting. I am thinking. Feeling the tide inside me. The sheer, final power of it. Its ebb. This mass of silence rolling, curling inside me. How to tap into something raw without breaking the equilibrium of my fragile world? How to live as two people, when I only have one body in which to breathe?
It is not about craving, nor longing. It is naked living.
My fingertips skin the keys, but my hands will not play the music. My toes twitch, my ankles swell, yet my legs will not dance. To dance, one needs a partner, and if one has its half, one cannot ask it to sit this one out.
I am thinking. Feeling. Choosing, but losing already.
In any other world, I could be the girl in the spiked heels, living within dark rooms. I would be the one to throw the first punch to defend a way of life–to define our boundaries. I could be the high femme. The strong, smokey-eyed woman. I have not been asked to. This is not the role I was given. I am a shadow of her, but still I am as honest as any noon sun. Contradiction?
Deal with it.
Because, I fucking do.
Satisfaction is a day without doubt.