Mister, Mister

i dreamed of you.  very early this morning.  in my dream, it was summertime.  back when we were seventeen.  I phoned you.  at home.  your mom answered the phone.  said you were at football practice.  i asked her to tell you that Elle had called.  she said she would… (and then i woke up).

i always wake up before you call… (just like real life).

Mister, Mister

So unfair.  so f*cking unfair.

To tease me with, “I have always felt you are my, the one that got away.”  

And then (in practically the next breath) state, “but lose my email address, because I promise you, I will not respond.” 

(to say I’m hurting is the understatement of the year)

Sheer, With Bow

i don’t love you,
i’m not even sure i like you.

yet i shower and shave for you,
perfumed lotion to legs and hair,
innocent white cotton panties,
sheer, with bow.

hints of promises i cannot keep,
tortured rituals, fruitless efforts,
for a lover never known.

wishing my hair was the only thing
i teased.
-Contessa Confessa

Mister, Mister…

I saw your name at the top of a mass e-mail I received yesterday.  And, I thought of you… of the possibilities of you.  And how much I miss reading your e-mails.  And I couldn’t help but wonder… do you miss me too?