one of these days, you know, i won't get in a wreck and want to call her.

one of these days, that stupid fairytale in my head i dream about secretly will come true. i'll take the big step, do the insanely romantic thing, stand there in the pouring rain with her favorite flowers.

one stupid day.

until then, i'll have my half bad dreams and half weird dreams, until then i'll wake up saying to myself just get over her.

until then, i have fake entries.

starting now:

they don't quite remember the first time they made love. they slept together so quickly, so early in the relationship, and then, after that, so often, that there almost was no first time.

it was natural, his lips on her throat, moving down her breastbone, her fingers in his hair. there was no nervousness, no hesitation. it just was.

and that is what they think about, lying in separate rooms, staring at separate ceilings that were both bumpy with popcorn spackle.

the things he does remember, of that first time, are flashes.

his asking her permission. she, barely with breath, saying yes, him saying are you sure, looking in her eyes, wanting to do the right things the right ways, wanting to make her shudder and laugh, smile and explode, wanting her to feel every damn thing she ever made him feel just by touching his hands.

she remembers the way he stopped, midway into it, to place his hands beside her shoulders, to hold himself above her, looking directly in her eyes, just to say "you're amazing."

and it was the first time anyone, any man, had looked at her like that, had made her feel attractive and worth something, worth loving, able to be adored.

and he remembers how his whole body seemed to turn into a giant mouth, hungry for her, for contact with her body, he wanted to grab her and pull her tight against him, he wanted to know the back of her knees and the moles on arms, he wanted to absorb her.

she wanted to stretch the night out, stretch that slight pain and the hunger she felt herself for him, the hunger that wanted him in deeper, wanted him to swallow her.

he sleeps on the couch with the window open, the slight scent of rain on the breeze, the smell of heat and pavement, night that never really cools.

she sleeps on her bed, the smell of her lavendar candle still in the air, her lotion rising from the arm her head was resting on.