I miss

A soppy, long composition of things I miss. I posted it in my blog some time ago.

I miss those kisses that actually meant something, those kisses where you can feel the artery on your neck pulsing more and more the closer your lips get.

I miss those nights that are so cold, and you can't sleep, but in the dark there's a sight of the silhouette, and its shadow against the wall, and the soft, gentle noise of the air coming in through the nose and out through the mouth. And you slowly move your hand to brush its back, and shoulder, and chest, and arm, and fingers.

I miss those thousands of minutes wasted while trying to decide what to watch, and then just deciding to have another smoke.

I miss the squeaky sound of those cheap beds, the 'shush' I would moan when it got way too loud, and the fact that you didn't care about it at all.

I miss staring into someone's eyes, and see them staring right into yours, that light, or spark, that entered my mind. And talking became excessive, an unnecessary chore, and in the quiet there was comfort.

I miss burping out loud, and laughing right after, and not caring to sound too manly, too disgusting, too human.

I miss the pillow fights, the tickles, that stupid game where you keep water in your mouth and then you spit it on someone as if you were a f*****g llama, and then run around the room to escape the same soaky fate.

I miss getting wasted, and yell and being annoyed, the incomprehensions, and fighting and making up, and not talking about it the day after, in bed, laying hungover, eating pizza and watching anything. 

I miss those unexpected hugs while you're doing the dishes, folding the laundry, where you don't know whether to be pleased or feel like a housewife from a 50s TVshow.

I miss the long night drives, and the s****y music coming from the stereo, the lights of the cars approaching and fading, and touching and caressing the knee, and the thigh, and the dick, for the laugh, just for the laugh. 

I miss the hot, passionate sex, the limbs trembling and panting and gasping, and biting, and the fingernails grasping tightly on the skin, and the naked back was a blank canvas for the red scratches you'd create, a masterpiece of your own.

I miss that strand of hair, that one I used to wrap around my finger and play with, and twirl and then let go, held as a hostage between my index and your head, that stupid strand of hair I wouldn't let go. 

But a kiss is just a kiss, banal and ordinary.

And when I wake at night, I check the time on my phone to see how long I have left till the morning, change position, breath in through the nose and out through the mouth, and try and fall asleep again. 

And I don't argue on what to watch, I just play something and smoke alone. 

And now the bed doesn't squeak, and the walls are thin, but I honestly couldn't give a f**k about it.

And I try to stare into people's eyes, but it's uncomfortable after ten seconds, and silence is heavy, and we feel the urge to tell predictable jokes, and smirk, and make that noise where you just let some air out of your nose, that is so annoying and yet slightly reassuring. 

And I still burp like a man, but only in front of three or four people. 

And my shoes and socks and jeans and tiny little meaningless objects are the ones who play games with me, à cache-cache, the water comes in the room when it's raining outside and the sole is wet. 

And when I get pissed, I come back home, stumbling in the computer charger and throwing my clothes around and crashing in bed and melting with the sheets, with a loud sound in my ear, knowing I will curse myself from the moment my body will decide to not let me sleep anymore, and that would be the only I won't comprehend. 

And the dishes I clean them en chantant, and the laundry smells so fresh when it's done, and I always press it to my nose and my cheek to feel the scent of the softener.

And I ride my rusty-red bike through the city, trying not to fall or crash into somebody's car, humming a song to keep me company, but I hate riding at night and not being able to see the surroundings, and the fresh morning air is so pure and it gently tingles my nose.

And sex is just two bodies entwined and two minds disconnected, and it's 40% passionate, 50% satisfying, 3% 'should I go down', 4% 'is he gonna go down' and 3% 'f**k I should have shaved my legs better..oh whatever.' 

And I still wrap my finger around a strand of hair. I've always done it, since I was a child, to help me fall asleep. I twirl my strand of hair. I guess I was that strand of hair, wrapped around your finger, and held hostage by the idea of the idea of what it was.

But the strand is unraveled, like an old jumper, like an old comfortable jumper I still wear and will never, ever, throw away. 

But honestly, it's ok.