It’s been a while since I’ve written,

and it feels so strange. For two weeks in a foreign country, I carried around a journal and wrote about all my experiences. But we flew back home, the class ended, and I had to turn my journal in, with half of the pages folded in half to keep my professor from reading them. I’m curious whether he will or not. He wouldn’t be disappointed.

On those secret pages is the true, uncensored, uncut version of my experiences in Scotland. Accounts of going to bars and clubs and pubs and getting drunk enough to have nights of my life that I’d never remember.

I do remember it, though. All of it. All of the jack and cokes, all of the beers, all of the sweating and dancing wasn’t enough to make me forget everything. It all just becomes a blur, a very clear, distinct blur.

I remember his face. I remember his voice. I remember his eyes, his eyes. I remember pissing in cold, cobblestone alleys with him, laughing my drunk ass off at my own stupidity. “Well, this isn’t very ladylike.” I remember, too, walking with him in those same cold, dark streets, on our way to a gay pub, turning a corner and grabbing his jacket, pulling him into me and hitting my head as he pressed me against the wall or door of this building or whatever and he kissed me, kissed me like he missed me, like he hadn’t seen me in centuries and would never see me again. “I’m not nearly drunk enough for that yet,” I said right after our mouths parted. I was the one who’d grabbed him, the one who’d said, “Kiss me here,” but I was the one who wasn’t ready yet.

I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. To have someone kiss me and it feel good like that. Not just good, but right. Like I was supposed to have already drank just enough to do it but not enough to go home with him already. Like we were supposed to be in that alley, kissing against that wall. Like if some stranger happened to walk by and see us, he or she would have thought we were madly, hopelessly in love, couldn’t get enough of each other.

But we did get enough of each other. Two weeks’ worth of late nights out dancing and drinking was all I needed of him, and he of me. Two weeks’ worth of dark nights in the hotel room, asking roommates to leave for a few minutes while he and I touched, tasted, felt, fucked all of each other. Two nights where we lied in the bed after, whispering secrets to each other, things I’d never told anybody else, things he could have just made up. I’d like to think he didn’t, but I’ll never know. Two weeks was all I got with him. Those two weeks are over.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. It’s a small town we live in. But I don’t think I mind if I never do. The only thing that’s hard is trying not to write about him, about us. Can I say us? I think I will. I wonder if he’d mind….

He was beautiful. What we had was, too, however soaked in alcohol and sweat and tears and water from the shower we shared one night. One night. One night wouldn’t have been enough. I’m glad I had enough nights. I’m glad I had enough.

“I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love,
and how you gave me everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me.”
– Charles Bukowski (via andwhisper)

(via wastedromance)

“Living on pills, phone calls unmade, people unseen, pages unwritten, money unmade, pressure piling up all around to make some kind of breakthrough and get moving again. Get the gum off the rails, finish something, croak this awful habit of not ever getting to the end—of anything.”
– Hunter S. Thompson, Songs of the Doomed (via penseesduchoeur)

(Source: kamslow, via lunarwounds)