unedited

it's late summer, warm and humid and unctuous, colors saturated and shadows long. we're walking through an open-air market. the stalls are being dismantled but there are still many people strolling around. everyone seems docile. we are awkwardly holding hands. I'm staring ahead as you talk too much- chattering about our plans, our future, how everything will be different this time. I am purposely not looking at you- I am trying to remain detached, ready to dart off at a moment's notice, ready to save myself.
our dynamic was always like that: you would get so fucking obsessive about the most impractical things, you would intimidate me with controlling devotion, you would wield your version of 'love' like a threat. I am back here now, walking with you, blurrily hearing you babble about the future, and I feel sick and uneasy all over again. I don't want to be yelled at for calling it 'having sex' instead of 'making love.' I don't want to hear you order me to look into your eyes so you can insist you saw my pupils dilate. I don't want your insecurities, bullshit, tunnel vision, mindfucks, narrow-mindedness or snivelling. but I am here now, staring straight ahead, because I will always worry that you are the only man who's ever loved me.
we are renovating a round trailer. I remember all the times we tried to do things together and failed miserably: everything dissolved into a screaming fight. we could not cook together, work on a fucking jigsaw puzzle, install pergo flooring, travel, even be in the same room together. you insist it'll be different. I can hear you smiling. as always, you are caught up in the romantic idea of it all: no work in the trailer has been done yet, apart from a mattress on the floor where we will sleep together later for the first time in years. I am excited by that- part of me will always find few things more satisfying and primal than a hastily made bed. it makes me feel like all my stupid bohemian dreams, all my vagabond fantasies, may finally be actualized with you. I still don't look over but I'm starting to feel less cynical. the world is tinted marigold.
it's morning. the same gold light is filtering through the fabric over the trailer windows. you are already up. I am naked under the sheets. giddiness turns to panic. I'm here again. I have allowed myself to be caught and I am now a trapped animal. I try to calm down. there is something reassuring about seeing your side of the bed, where you slept, where you slept beside me- it's a thought that makes me feel weirdly nurturing and gentled- this person trusts me enough, even still, to sleep beside me- and I apparently trust them enough too. I tell myself that this is what love is, this is what matters. I try to tell myself I'm lucky. when he returns, I decide, I will finally look at him. I will stare my future down.
and I lay there, and I'm restless, and I can't shake the dread and panic, and I can't do it. I can't fucking do it. "I'm still dreaming" I say aloud, and I force myself to wake up.
*
sofa, 608am PST. Tiresias is behind my knee. the freeway is already covered with commuters. relief, then loneliness. the mind is a strange place.