to guard her from the snow."

For Stars - DOWNLOAD, PEOPLE."

I just don't know if things went right. Maybe I've been so out of the romantic loop that I've forgotten how to act, how to send signals, how to withdraw them. I want to do the right thing (/who doesn't) and I don't want to hurt anybody (/who does), but I'm either spent or overloaded, maybe. Maybe.

I want to be telepathic. Wouldn't that just cut through a big mess of complications? It'd be a tidal wave of simplicity, and welcomed, at that.

I smell like smoke.

I really wonder at times how many of you people read this silly thing. Astoundingly, it's been active for years. I can't even remember who told me to do this. The first entry talks about what putting your diary online means as far as what you really want for privacy. For some, it seems to be a way to give shaded sideways gestures to people who otherwise you wouldn't have the gall to talk to, or at least say what you mean. Maybe it's a slightly more in-depth inquisitiveness that you can provide friends, or at least people you know. God knows I've done that; vieled romantic preludes or bitter diatribes against people who may or may not read this. It's masturbatory, really. heh. I would hope that everyone that writes these things knows that. I suspect a part of them does.

But I get a genuine pleasure out of having an audience to cater to, especially in writing. I only really write a lot of poetic things when I'm either:

a. Involved in a poetry group, and know I'll be performing soon and want to give a good show, or

b. the private secret show of love poems to people whom I do, in fact, love, in a relationship with them or not. It just gives me such pleasure to do that and the words come like water. That's got to be a part of contentment for me - I find it easy to express affection, and it's amplified if it's love. Love takes lots of emotions and just quarter-inch cables' it to a roaring lull, though. It's kind of how I feel now; a whine of feedback that pricks at the back of my neck and back of my mind, wondering if I did it right. Someone left the guitar leaning lazily against the amp, waiting for an encore, covering the audience in a swell of sound.

The thing is, if I should go with the rock star metaphor (of which I'm drawn to, of course), I'd be backstage and not have the slightest idea if the people are holding up lighters and chanting, or filing out. That's romance for you, though. It's scattershot and unpredictable and doesn't go where you want it to. It feels free to collapse in the ground floor of the hotel singing old Flaming Lips songs at the top of its' lungs, and it likes to throw pebbles at your window at 4 in the morning to wake you up to let it in, so it can curl up with you. Love can make you angry, but to feel the backswell of a comma shape of it against you in bed, curling up to you - generations upon generations would gladly sacrifice legions to feel that. I would, sure.

I don't want to go to the people's party; I don't want to talk about where I'm from. I want to stay home with you and learn what you like, what you remember from youth, where you like to be touched, what you love, what could make you come or what would make you smile, what makes you laugh until your sides ache. It's not wrong for me to want to know you, I know, but it's just the accessability, the availability of it all. It flits like the dozen moths that seem to have found that my room is the place to be. Scattered around the light and throwing shadows. Yeah, yes, I wish you were here. It's only a little more that just curiosity about you - and that's a great feeling. To be so interested in a person, and not in the dating sense. In the human sense, instead.

Although I do, of course, wonder what your kisses feel like.