And then theres this...

There are those bottles of wine that make you over think the simplicity of your truth. My truth is this...

that I simply miss the longing.

First things: I do not, however, miss the reality. The domesticity. Those inevitable crossroads of boredom and familiarity where all nervous firsts eventually meet.

I blame my fate on how this all started. Stolen glances and kisses, fogged windows, and the danger... oh god the glaring addiction of danger. (I can still taste it, can still feel the paralyzing adrenaline of the wrong and juvenile line crossing) And now? Now Im thirty and still (to my own amazement) get overwhelmingly flustered at the mere suggestion - hint - idea of the all too infrequent forbidden endeavor. Unfortunately, thats about the only time Im ever flustered these days. (Sad.)

So, to clarify the aforementioned alcoholic slop that was my post of several months ago - no, there isnt anyone left to miss, and regardless of some B grade death/romance/comedic timing, I dont begrudge that (really).

What aches

What indefinably palpates my innards

is the confrontation of beige that slaps me awake every day. The awareness that Ive so compartmentalized my existence that those once steamy semi-innocent romps no longer exist in my too mature and now scientific world.

I will concede here and now that I DID lose my grip and allowed things to spiral thusly. Semi-innocent quickly rounded a sharp corner into dark and secretive and lets-never-speak-of-this. I am in no denial over the heights and depths of my daring. (You may still reminisce in small huddles where you're certain I cant hear (are you?), but Im the one who'll shoulder this albatross long after you tire of your salivating...)

But allow me this... I miss the racing pulse, and the should we? and the sparks of hope and yearning and LIVING.

I miss uncertain fingers on my cheek... and the not so subtle tug at my hair.

Thats what I miss. And thats all.