And yet detached.
And delicate were his hands,
smiling his eyes,
as disturbing was his heart.
Authentic, genuine, but not enough to pull her down.
Like a sexual intercourse where she is cold and frigid and he strives to make her come.
When she cannot stand the truth because she wants to believe to the tale she created, so bad.
She wants to believe those attentions were real,
she wants to believe that every morning-after those caresses were meant for her.
Idealist,
and wearing her best 'herself',
an elegant pain,
and an elegant half of a half love,
trying to believe that waht she saw through the crack on the wall
was the real her, the real him, the real them together.
when he was making love to her,
and yet he wasn't there,
when his hands were exploring her body
and a moment after he was forgetting all about her curves.
as if the two of them together that long forgotten day
had been a genuine forgetful moment of irrationality
after which the truth needs to be dismissed because useless,
because worthless.
Rough, again,
and authentic in his concealment.
No fuss, no forgiveness, no justification.
Simply the truth, that truth that words cannot convince nor change,
not as much as actions can.
And she remembers him
in that night, and his panting breathe,
his orgasm disguised and almost ashamed, because too true,
and his distant eyes afterwards,
his breathing on her neck holding on to pleasure,
holding on to the joy of the flesh, her flesh so warm next to him.
And she needs to remember how she felt,
allowing him there for the first time in a long time
for his authenticity, the same genuinity that had her falling in love in another life.
in his roughness, his detachment,
and in the concealed truth,
that nothing is meant to be good,
nothing is meant to stay the same,
nothing is meant to progress either
as long as she keeps on hoping in fairytales,
as long as she wants to make a flower grow in aridity.
She will be transparent for him, for them,
making it so easy to go unnoticed at all.
Comments
Anyway, great post.
Uhm.
This is a narration of a life experience I had yes and I don't really believe that the other person needs to know how I feel cause it's all about me and my sensations in this matter, as usual, I should add.
Why did I do that? For fun, to defeat boredom, to enjoy some moments out of my weird inner life at the moment. Is that enough to do somehting like this knowing no future whatsoever will ever come out of it? I don't know, but that is how I work lately.
In our world, Olivia is a bit sad, "with a sad smile and joyless eyes", as they said there. But in the other world she is very happy.
Reading your words, I asked myself if in the other world the "alternative Anna" would have written different words here, today...
Uhm, I guess the alternative Anna today would have written the same thing but with a different point of view 'Thank God for pushing away the prats from my life!' :)
xo
surely some people find harder than others, and usually harder than me, to express themselves. Intimacy is somehting scary and a lot of people non only are not able to be in it, but are also unwilling to even try and being intimate.
My fantasy are never concentrating on the person, usually on the situation and this is my mistake possibly, as for the easy way out in this case it's surely what happened.
The disappointment comes whenyou thought that that person could at least try and then you see him/her not even try and dismiss you.