At least I have you to talk to

Or so I think.

Listen, I mean, you remember this story.

It's: why do I insist on repeating it.

You've seen the results, or at least the polite version.

Again!

She's beautiful, suffering.

My hands still smell of her perfume but not her lips.

Maybe you hate Houllebecq, and maybe rightly-so, but, 

well,

we'll get to that.

Having an alcoholic for a mom really makes it hard for me to be a "man". To see suffering as a prelude to ejaculation.

There is a beautiful girl. Another smart one. 

Who has done more drugs in the last 24 hours than I have in my entire life. 

I gave in a little tonight. I smoked weed. Turned down the cocaine and the Klonopin.

I just came back from her apartment. 

Nothing happened between us. Well, actually, not quite. 

My emotions towards her deepened, concurrent with my anger at repeating the same mistakes.

But

her sadness 

well, it makes me care for her more, even while. 

I mean, I think, 

she wants me to fuck her, and 

I want to fuck her, but, 

somehow, not like this. 

Not as her eyelids grow more heavy with the weight of life,

not as the Utopia of sleep, of dreams, is falling upon her forehead

gentle caress.

She played a song for me tonight, on her guitar, and, 

inside of her is. 

The stupor of nihilistic resignation vanquished by the slight furrow of a brow focused on the task of salvation. 

As long as I want to run a thumb along her jaw, collecting the scent of her hair into the ever-increasing wrinkles of my skin, 

I am fucked, but not her.

I am a man after all, one who wants to take her from behind as she screams,

facing the abyss,

and yet,

I don't want to take the "her" she believes herself to be, the "her" of her self-hatred;

I want to take the "her" from which she is in flight.

I've always been the observer in the lives of those lost. 

Lost, myself, I am,

and yet. 

I am not. 

I know what I want, and I know that what I want is wrong.

I feel totally stuck: too normal to succor the lost, too moral to aid in misdirection, too strange to ever feel comfortable amongst those

whose sails have never been blown by

      an

            infernal

                  wind.

Houellebecq has said that tenderness is a deeper instinct than seduction.

And so I am fucked more than I fuck.

If I had asked nothing of her, demanded nothing more than no resistance to fingers ripping apart the machine-made eroticism of that which protects the salient, the cosmic, the unrepeatable orifice, then it would be done, long ago. And that is all she wants.

It's me, it's my fault. Or maybe.

It's not that I am, somehow, insufficient.

It's just that,

more than her body,

more than litany of unexplored angles to navigate,

the tastes to master,

the nerves underneath

silken

skin

squeezed

selfishly: 

I want her soul. 

I want to fuck her into a new ontology. If I can't, I won't.

I can't, so I won't.

This is all I know of love.