It's like a whole other added ease to life, tousled affections for lasting embraces. Last night got me down to the core, layered affections and rancid car hopping. Finding friends and losing them again, because the world is bigger and badder when you want it to be. He put my picture up on his wall, but his apartments hidden away from the main intersections, so it doesn't mean very much. Affections last only as long as you can pretend to be interested. I'm too wild for him, and for the first time, I find myself not wanting to be.
He saw me on the back of another boy's motorcycle. But, I don't mind much. It was going to be over sooner or later. He didn't amuse me enough in speech or in the physical and I needed something less stable. Predictability kills me, eats me, and I'd rather run with the reckless, or in this case, ride.
Jake is a friend, a lover and an all-american bad boy. But he's leaving for London in August. We both have a taste for the unknown, but in strikingly different ways. I'm a writer of words, he's a writer of the mind. In fact I've never seen him with pencil and paper. He does his best work on the open road. Part of me wants to hop back onto the back of his bike and come along for the ride.
A cigarette on the ledge of the radio beside her, and from it two curling prongs of smoke rising. He has presence you must ignore in the darkened room; if you are to close your eyes and fall asleep.