for once, it's actually not cold in the room when you come over and we begin the now ritual formality of "watching a movie". this time it's American Psycho. we watch the first few scenes flirtily, but by the time patrick bateman axes paul allen in the face, we're wrapped in each other's arms.

"my heart spills awkward and embarrassing blood onto white-golden streets and i am unashamed of the stains my steps leave tears stream down my cheeks only to meet their redeemer and be wiped away and there is joy, ah there is joy." --Mineral, Take the Picture Now

and as we do the proverbial "it" for the first time, call it what you will, sex, making love, fucking, whatever, i want to tell you how much you mean to me. how many times a day i think of you, of your touch, of the way your skin feels againsr mine. i want to whisper into your ear that this means something. that you mean something to me.

and i think that at one point last night, naked, vulnerable, and curled up next to you, i may have told you that i liked you more than i should. but i don't remember if that, like happiness, was just a dream.

and if not, then your response is a mystery to me.