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1/25/17

(Chet Faker, Nick Cave, PJ Harvey, Ween…)

I can’t keep fucking you like that. Like we’re lovers and have a history behind us, one that reassures me of what’s ahead of us. I can’t keep craving you the way I crave you – in that distracted and my smile brings youth back into my face, lines all soft and faded kind of way. I can’t keep wanting you to be mine when I know you’re still hers, but I’m not supposed to know your still hers or she’s still yours, because maybe, just maybe the nuance is important and relevant. But I don’t know which way it is, or if it goes both ways, and I worry if I ask we’ll evaporate and I’ll be left wondering why I couldn’t just pretend that I could keep fucking you the way we fuck, craving you the way I crave you, and pretending you want me the way I want you.


2.1.17

There was something that happened along the way, from my last post professing more vulnerability and openness, to this one. Many things happened actually, and pieces of me slowly came back together. It’s like when a magnet hovers above shaved metal bits… you can watch them scramble towards each other in such a haphazard, desperate way. I’ve been collecting all these shaved metal bits of me and every time I meet someone who catches my eyes, I swear he becomes this messiah holding a magnet over me.

Time and again I meet these men, and truthfully most barely spark a fluttering in my metallic dust. But occasionally, one sits so close to me on a barstool, his shaking nervous fingers graze my arm casually, touch my thigh briefly and confidently, his reddened neck softens me… oh, he’s really sweet, this one… this one with a record player, this one with a lakeshore house ready to fill with children, this one with deep brown eyes offering up corrective emotional healing experiences…

I keep doing this thing where I lean in unwittingly, sort of, desperately – mostly, and then it vanishes as quick as it started. I lick my wounds and curse the pain, and search for songs that resonate and words that articulate… then I move on…

© 2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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