Addiction

It feels like such a flurry. Feelings that I had just about forgotten, right down to the gently lifting of a bleach blonde arm hair, preparing for the goose-bump. I should've written last night and I didn't. I forced myself to read and fully enjoy my novel, since it's due date back to the library is quickly approaching. All I wanted was to talk to him a little longer. Feel his fingers on my tattoo one more time. Tell him stories that I can't bring myself to admit to. But my opportunity has passed. Perhaps I never really had one, everything is always so cloudy. Why does he still hypnotize me? Why does his voice move deep and slow like molasses and hands haunt me? I had told him I didn't love him anymore. Perhaps I lied. I actually have to admit that I'm not entirely sure how to write about what it is that I am not entirely sure I'm feeling at this moment. I feel like I'm still in love, that I was always in love, that there was never a moment of doubt and all those other beautiful things that happy white-picket-fenced-in couples spew at the alter on their most holiest of days. But I don't particularly care to feel this way. I expected more from myself. More strength and endurance, more emotional freedom and capability. But I have fooled myself once again. The overwhelming sense of need has taken over my morning cup of coffee and drab excel reports.

I smoke my last cigarette this year, I hope, and stub out the remains in the left over snow that the plow didn't manage to pick up. I feel a subtle wave of self doubt, as though I am perfectly in control here and have sabotaged myself to settle here. Right here. In the half empty parking lot at Midnight on a monday after having worked for 14 hours; lying, laughing, squirming in my seat. What a masochist he is. To simply watch, as though he has no idea, but he knows. He knows even better than I do. I don't mind so much. I've spent enough time in a tattoo chair, and they don't joke when they say it's an addiction.

We talked about addiction. Something that you feel you can not function without. Does that mean I'm addicted? I can function, I just don't like it. Look at me, wallowing as though I were some star crossed lover with a gun to my temple, trembling and weeping to a melancholy man. How is he the only one that brings this out of me. This flood, this monsoon, this tidal wave, if you will.