v u l v a l i c i o u s
Where we stand, the ill feelings of ambiguity
There are only so many ways to say that when I saw her tonight, I couldn't tell how she felt about me, but I knew it was different. She's looking at me, but not like usual. Different. Good or bad. Just not the same. Something.
Ambiguity kills me. I write in my journal that touching doesn't change the language two people speak to one another, it simply adds some words to the vocabulary. This is something that others do not understand or agree with. I forget that I diverge from the main road in my approach to sensual and sexual relationships. I should have anticipated the change, but did not.
I have a creeping sense of fear that I have demolished a perfectly good relationship with my sexual acquiescence. She's moving away at the end of August, and I am returning north. At the beginning of the summer, I confided in a friend that she was the only person that I thought could hold my interest this summer. That she was the lone sparkle in the barren dyke desert landscape. It was true.
I feel like crashing into myself like lightning into a tree--transformative, sharp, electric; cutting into the crawling self-doubt and leaving behind hot-burning ash and complete clarity. I feel like taking out the ambiguity and hurling it into someone else's yard. I want to know where I stand with her, and I don't know how to get there from here.