My suitcase heart*

(*full credit to the Weepies for this beautiful image)

This weekend was rough. I don't know if it was just the J thing, or if it was contributed to by my attempts at weaning off of my anti-depressants (and skipping one night, by accident) Either way, I feel shitty and empty and exhausted (oh, and getting 3 hours' sleep to study for my physics test this morning doesn't help either.)

This is something I started last night, and added a little to today. I may well keep adding to it (this is certainly something I've done before.) It's addressed to him.

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I like it when you wrap yourself around me, when our skin meets and melts and we trade each other's body heat, when you pause in the middle of a make-out session just to look at me, when you kiss my nose, go up on your tip-toes to kiss my forehead. When you ask me to touch you where you said you're not always comfortable being felt. When you say things like you want to cuddle and play all night and wake up next to me.

Sometimes I feel like you're distant, sad, detached, like you'd rather be somewhere else (but only for short snippets of time, and usually not in the thick of it.) Those are the times that make me realize that I just can't read you as easily as I can some people. I wonder at the things that go through your mind, know they must extend farther than just thinking about how hot I am or something along those lines.

My first impulse is to not see you again, now that I've spoken to you about it (somewhat.) To leave you a mixtape, a primal strip, and a brief note and disappear into my studies until I know I really won't be able to see you, and then I can attempt to deal with whatever this is.

And now there's this silence, that radio white noise that ensues from expectation of something coming through. This is what I expected, this awkward part (or maybe I'm just making it that way.) See, that's the thing: being so cerebral, I have a disconnect with what I'm feeling (which has really just been widened by years of depression and eating disorder.) So maybe this isn't as strong as I initially thought or maybe just as I phrased it to you. Maybe I just like you as a person as well as like to fuck you, and you make me feel like every little bit of me is is acceptable and lovable and it feels so good not to hide parts of who I am just to please a lover.

And that, dear, gentlemanly, J, is part of what tumbles through my head when I say that I am smitten.