We're not that different, you and I. Controlled the way we are by the tastes that cross our lips, the scents that catch our noses. We howl and bark when the people we love are taken away. We're overcome by the simplest of needs. We eat our food too fast. And we always pull on our leashes. Because, well...fuck you is why.

No, we're not that different, you and I.

Until now, I never really loved the way you do: Uncomplicated. Completely caught in my own impulse. To take. To have. To control. And then to let go. But I understand it now. And I've learned a lot by watching you. Like how to be okay with it. And to accept. To brush off the consequences. To find ways to forget. You chew things. I smoke away the worry.

And I keep coming back to this (and I think you'd get it): that this is all there is—the lingering taste and scent. Memories of these things I love, which I'm compelled to return to, again and again. So I can mark them. And make them mine. The perfect purity of longing. The ache. The scratch. The fit. The buck and the breath. The force. The play and the pull. The need to dominate...to be dominated. To fold to this instinctive violence. To become drunk with it. And to let it define me.

To know—and be happy—that this, this is all there is.

Category: InBetween