Pain

Let me tell you; my friend; what pain is. It is when you crave the person you are in love with so bad, yet you cannot have them in your arms. When you want to communicate with them in moans and groans not in English the way your ancient ancestors did, and inhale their breath and lick every drop of their sweat off their skin, but then you lie on your sofa helplessly, maybe because they do not want you as badly, or maybe it is a long distance thing, or maybe because they do not even know that you do f1deccdc6abdff5b6b406960c1ecb00eexist in the first place. Whatever the reason is, you are turning in your bed in agony as if your body is on fire, yet you refuse to touch yourself because you know that nothing could quench your lust but the real thing, the smell of flesh and blood, the taste of their saliva dripping from their lips. And then you despise those white, clean sheets; hoping that one day they will come over and stain your clean sheets with love, you hate your tidy room where everything is so in place and pray that they will come along one night and make a mess.

So you wait and wait, and then you wait some more. Pain, my friend, will reshape your inner realm. The worst thing is that you have no idea how to deal with this emptiness or the right dose of Xanax that might lessen that pain. You give up. You run to your running shoes, to music, to your South African white wine, to meditation on beauty, architecture and art. You send them happy thoughts, you say silent prayers, and wish them well.

 

 

 

 

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