I came upon it, powedered, immediately added it to the concotion, to the sunday evening storming and its coldness.  Spring my ass, the good nature of the warm days, so misleading, gone completely. It is cold, put back your long socks, your undershirt, cleaveage under your own risk. Of course there are those who don’t suffer any isolation, self-imposed or not, and have spaces friendly to cleaveage, to warm exchanges or misguided alcoholic intimacy.

Everything is fine, things are going fine, we had our first fight on the 24th, on our month anniversary. It’s ludicrous, only a month! He says he’s had the best saturday, in our outburst after the bar the air had gone neutral under all that gunpowder, and he picked me up the next morning, at 8:15am, and did dishes while I made coffee, and held my hand all day, randomly kissing my fingers.

He was jealous. I was hurt. I’m using again, if by using I mean getting so endeared to the idea of him, of a him to lift me beyond myself. In the meantime, I´ve had more hugs than the whole year, and it’s somehow freakish, scarier than the noncomittal hope I lived with before. I am terrified he will leave, now that it keeps  going well.


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