like smoke in the thinnest air/i open the lamborghini - (that bastard) weezy
the proverbial cigarette smoke dissipating after the limerent breakup fuck, the last of my ridiculous fantasies running out of me, to be washed out of the flannel sheets that i've never shared with a soul, save for the infinite ghosts-of-self(ves).
i never lied to myself. i caught this one early and saw myself going through the motions, walking the same dopamine-worn elephant paths, taking machetes to piñatas and eviscerating any goodness in the process, often leaving pity-partygoers disemboweled, gutted.
no, no. no more walking in circles on hot coals and eggshells. i leaned in hard and i got what i asked for, and i asked for what i needed, and so often what i heed most is the perspective of pain. force of habit, that.
what i said to barb is this:
so it's really just about grieving the loss of the people i'll never be, and what this feels like is being someone who is wanted. i am always needed, and it means MY needs never get met. somehow, i can't seem to get my love need met, but like. i'm stoked i can focus entirely on russian. i will worry later about showing up and never being able to make friends.
barb reminds me that we are friends, and that i'm two decades ahead of her in stark and important realizations.
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