went to the homestead last night, the soon-to-be empty homestead.  did vapor hits and sat on the floor, staring at the painting.  it's a ritual now.  we were serenaded by an indian man and talked about sushi and when company all went home we stood in the middle of the dining room and touched eachother.

"this is what dancing's about.  not sex, just touching."  i was rocking in the quiet and his hands were on my hips.  he grazed my sides, i touched his neck.  we gyrated and swayed and kept the important bits apart.  it was erotic without trying to be.  in my enlightened mental state it felt like hours that we stood there, touching, but i think it was only a few minutes.  i lose track of time when i'm high.  maybe i was there a lifetime; maybe i've a lifetime yet to be.

i don't remember what we talked about, and i don't think it matters.  i remember being so tired and talking about funhouse mirrors and fragmented people and rabbit holes.  the tumble-down rabbit hole.  i remember falling asleep and waking up over and over again, turning over, listening.  in the dark i tried to make out shapes, the glow of skin, the rise and fall of the chest.  i preserved it like a picture in my mind.  i remember spending the whole night in a tight ball, my muscles tense, making every conscious effort not to touch him.  the rules were clear and i never forgot.

time is running out but i'm doing my best.