The product of last night's insomnia.

If It Happens

You end up at his house, in his room, of course; because you can�t hold your breath long enough for the night to be over and if you don�t do this, you�ll break against the wall and sob because you want something you can�t have. Because for once, you were lonelier and more fragile than usual, because there was a time that he looked at you and made you this thing that you try not to be. And this doesn�t mean anything if you�re honest in what it lacks, everybody knows that; and you were a sucker for what you interpreted as a confession of loneliness, you think that means he�ll understand yours, even if you don�t. Yet, you blame yourself for the betrayal behind his kisses, in the car, by the door, in the hallway and on the floor, even if you�re too old for this shit, too old for his games, too old for your own; but that doesn�t seem to bother you tonight, not enough to stop anyway.

The creak of the bedsprings and the Spartan nature of the room seem so appropriate for inappropriate behavior; belatedly, you conjure up reasons for and against and he kisses them away with alcohol, your silence making you question why you�re the one usually in charge of the words. Always the words with you, and for him it�s the sounds. Because he knows when he�s inside of you, you can�t overwhelm him with words.

The bed creaks again and you laugh nervously and say something meaningless, which he catches with a dark gaze; you try to listen to his moves and feel the guilt that leaks from his fingers, though you might be giving him too much credit. You stupidly ask, in a semi-playful tone, if he knows that it only hurts if you get caught, and for an instant you loathe the irony in the fact that you�d each define that differently.

But he kisses you; hard on the mouth, and knocks the sentiment out of you with the muffled claim that it�s harder to do this when you're babbling about. So, you move away from the words and there�s silence again, but it�s not as embarrassing as it was when you were younger, or actually as it was just a half hour ago, when you clumsily took off his pants and it seemed sleazy and dirty during this one night for old time�s sake, when you�re not even sure there was a time to sake.

It occurs to you that maybe you shouldn�t mention that.

And you stare at the ceiling with your eyes closed, trying to let go of the guilt and the history, and you find yourself drowning in him on the largest bed in the smallest room, and it�s somewhat peaceful. Dirty words rolls off your tongue like all the things you�ve been avoiding in public, and he likes it � loves it � and you tell him fuck me, go harder, and oh god yes; suddenly words are okay and you almost resent that, though you don't think you're here for words either, though you might have been ... once; and that's the difference. So, you hide your pleasure in a whisper as you die seven times and come to life eight, with that shudder you hate and the boy you borrowed from himself.

You listen carefully for signs of regret in the kisses he trails on your lips and your face and your neck and your chest, until you can�t hear anything anymore. You know better than to put faith in that.

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