there's a storm brewing over hollywood hills, time to sail away. she's always naked in my dreams, and it's so natural none of us brings it up. she's doing what she's doing and i'm usually reading a book or watching something on tv. sometimes i touch her skin on my way to the kitchen to grab a beer or something; sometimes she asks me about something i was supposed to follow up for her, to which i mutter some vague answer without interrupting what i'm doing. sometimes she walks cross my eyesight, fully naked, and i don't even notice.
sometimes we make love. she's often quite, her lips placid, her eyes wide open looking away to one side. sometimes she comes first. when she does she closes her eyes, gasps and stretches her neck, clings tightly to my shoulders for a few seconds before relaxing her facial muscles; after which she thrusts me in between her thighs not to stop until i finish and we both lie down dead still, i hear her heart beat as she breathes in my ear. then she leaves for the bathroom, and i watch her wobble away from me, in silence.
sometimes she's on the phone. she grabs her knees into her chest and leans against the cushions on the couch. her voice is serious, i almost don't recognize her, she never uses that tone with me. sometimes i put my head on her lap while she's talking, sometimes she walks away, fully naked, and i don't even notice.
sometimes someone's over. sometimes it's a friend of mine, i talk to him. sometimes it's a friend of hers, she talks to her. we go to movies. we eat. we talk about things. then we say bye and we go home. sometimes i brush my teeth first, sometimes she gets online before coming to bed. sometimes i'm asleep when she does, sometimes i hug her from behind before going to sleep, before we settle away to our own sides. sometimes our toes touch. sometimes that's all that matters to me, that our toes always touch when we're going to bed. sometimes i don't even notice. sometimes it's weird, since we've just had a fight, but our toes still touch.
i always wake up first. i always look at her. sometimes she's naked, sometimes she's not. sometimes she's wearing her pink gown, with her breast hanging out. sometimes its the white one with the string, sometimes i pull it to bare her nipple. sometimes i don't.
sometimes she's not there. then i realize i am awake. that she'll never be there, ever. sometimes i smile. sometimes i don't. it doesn't matter, really.
there's a black crow flying high above the hills in front of me, way below the clouds. its getting dark outside, a storm is coming and i should leave now.
i always wonder, did we ever talk?
Half through the post, I thought it was the best written material on intimacy. But the end left me puzzled. They never talked! Were they really close? Maybe you didn't want to make up your mind about that, leaving it a question ...again!
I think most of your posts about her has that quality of indecisiveness. Maybe if you make up your mind, you can start a new phase of writings about her. I think that you should have been done with this phase already.
Or maybe nobody really moves on and we're all stuck on the same loop of thoughts and we're just lying to ourselves.