Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Shall I Sing To You My Lullaby?

photo credit: Tobyotter

This scene is not new to me. Me, sitting here in the dark by your kitchen sink, smoking the last cigarette from my pack while you're in bed, fast asleep. You, exhausted and still naked from another spur of the moment, wandering in dreams, while I, waiting impatiently for sunrise or sleep.

Spur of the moment. That's how we used to call it. You started that, remember? Because you desired me immensely but you were too scared to love me. To fall for me. And that phrase --- that "spur of the moment" phrase that we used, to refer to kissing and fondling and fucking and all that--- absolved you from any emotional obligation.

Did you really think I was convinced? Did you really think that I was fine with that? Or did you know I wasn't but you continued to prey on me nonetheless because you knew that I wasn't strong enough to resist?

You knew me very well. You knew the right words to say to make me want you. You knew just where to touch me and kiss me. You knew just where to run your tongue to make me drop to my knees --- defenseless, wanting, needing --- and ask for more. You knew how to smile at me and romance me with your words after we've both reached our peak to make me ready for another spur of the moment that may come anytime in the coming days. On your own terms. At your own convenience. And you knew very well how to say "good night" and turn away. You knew when exactly to doze off to make me realize it was just that. A spur of the moment. Nothing else.

Tonight was no different. Except that before, I would ask myself why, while sitting in this very corner of your house. Why did I allow you to use me AGAIN? Why could I just not say "no"? Why does the moon and the stars and the walls of your apartment seem to be staring at me; mocking me for my weakness? Why has my better judgement escaped me momentarily? And why do you keep doing that?

No. Not tonight. Tonight, I await neither sleep nor sunrise. I sit here, devoid of guilt or hopes or anything the your fragile ego thrived on. I am here, not wanting to touch you tenderly in your sleep like I used to. I am simply waiting for this last cigarette from my pack to finish. Then I'll leave.

On my own terms. At my own convenience. This time, it is my spur of the moment. Mine.