Well, I woke up and can't get back to sleep. Too giddy excited about today, and my sleep schedule has been messed up for the past few days. Instead of looking at the ceiling I decided to come online to see if He left me a message after his flight got in last night. No. :( I should of waited up for him instead of going to bed early. So now I'm biting nails, worried about the weather we've been having. I will be beyond devastated if He can't get in due to storms. The weather here has been grounding flights left and right. I'm crossing my fingers.
If I could cum, maybe I would fall back asleep- but I'm certainly not selfish enough to be calling and waking him up at 3am to ask. Not that he would probably mind- but I do. I know with all the traveling He's done for work this week He's beat. So my mind is going one hundred miles a minute. I'm excited, but I'm nervous too. It's been awhile since I've spent an entire weekend with Him. Last time I had a really, really intense moment that through me for a loop. I tend to- as I've said, to internalize my emotions. I'm not real good at giving them to him. He is so good with me about it, for the time being. But I lost it on him that weekend. I cried in his arms for what felt like forever. I hated it, because it made me feel weak- and I was just so spent afterwards. But it was also a relieving of burdens. Lifting of weight. When I left the next day it was hard for me. I had to emotionally separate myself from him. A protective barrier. That week was a nightmare for me. I was terribly removed, detached from everything. I guess I'm scared of that again. So I'm scared of that again. I've spent the night with him since then, and was fine. Two weeks ago I spent two days off and on with him and was great. But the whole weekend- I'm afraid it does something to me.
Okay, I'm really done talking about this because I'm psyching myself out.
I've picked out some books to read to him from. The first is Night in Rondathe by Nicholas Sparks. I'm such a sucker for tragic love stories. Hate romantic comedies etc. But give me death and hopelessness and I'm eating it up. Along the lines of Bridges of Madison County it really touched me in places. I'm also taking a book of poems by Margaret Atwood. I've been reading a lot of her lately. Just great. I'll share one. Next is a small book of poems by Catherine Pierce. A fairly new poet on the scene- she has a great voice. Her book "Famous Last Words" just one the Saturnalia poetry contest. Here is a poem from here- though it isn't in this book- it is so very fitting.
3 1/2 Days
She was alive for 3 ½ days.She saw…stories of eccentric living erupting from the shimmer, fluid streams of dreams, the penetrating punch into the stomach of our collective hope. She heard…utterances from a most primal place.The tick tock of a clock, pied piper pleas for presence, a silent soliloquy. She touched…a haunted heart, an Achilles heel, back from hell, a place too hot For human hands. She tasted…One hungry hello, A milk chocolate mouthful of remorse, pink, peppery porn, and an infamous, familial feast.She smelled...her musky liqueur of choice, green apples, but not for pie, and the lingering scent of goodbye.She sensed…at the end of 3 ½ days, the demise of being alive. Death by flight. Maya Angelou is not the only one who knows why the caged bird sings.
She was alive for 3 ½ days.She saw…stories of eccentric living erupting from the shimmer, fluid streams of dreams, the penetrating punch into the stomach of our collective hope. She heard…utterances from a most primal place.The tick tock of a clock, pied piper pleas for presence, a silent soliloquy. She touched…a haunted heart, an Achilles heel, back from hell, a place too hot For human hands. She tasted…One hungry hello, A milk chocolate mouthful of remorse, pink, peppery porn, and an infamous, familial feast.She smelled...her musky liqueur of choice, green apples, but not for pie, and the lingering scent of goodbye.She sensed…at the end of 3 ½ days, the demise of being alive. Death by flight. Maya Angelou is not the only one who knows why the caged bird sings.
-Catherine Pierce
Is/Not
Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry the slick filling of aches and cavities you are not my doctor you are not my cure, nobody has that power, you are merely a fellow/traveller Give up this medical concern,buttoned, attentive, permit yourself anger and permit me mine which needs neither your approval nor your surprise which does not need to be made legal which is not against a disease but against you, which does not need to be understood or washed or cauterized, which needs instead to be said and said. Permit me the present tense.
Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry the slick filling of aches and cavities you are not my doctor you are not my cure, nobody has that power, you are merely a fellow/traveller Give up this medical concern,buttoned, attentive, permit yourself anger and permit me mine which needs neither your approval nor your surprise which does not need to be made legal which is not against a disease but against you, which does not need to be understood or washed or cauterized, which needs instead to be said and said. Permit me the present tense.
-Margaret Atwood
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