I don't want to write about you any longer

I don't want to write about you any longer
Even if my hands would string the most beautiful words
For the sweetness of your thought entrances me
And I'd become lost, more lost than I already am.

I don't want to write about you any longer
As I'd once again smell the scent of your hair,
feel the softness of your touch,
The gentleness of your being.
And it makes me sad, sadder than I've ever been.

I don't want to write about you any longer
Lest you'd pervade my thoughts
like you always did, and still do
Then you'd once again be near, deludingly near.

 But not wanting to write about you
brings you back---
Fully, sweetly, though not really
So I won't write about you any longer
In the hopes that one day, I'll find
someone just as good, or even so much
better.

Someday, it's gonna make sense

I was fixing myself in front of the mirror when a random guy came in to take the spot beside me.

"Do I look so white?" he asked, addressing my reflection more than myself.

"Yes, you do," I kindly replied.

We were in the (dingy) restroom of the most popular gay club in town. Despite the more common peppery men frequenting the place (read: pa-mhin-ta; straight-acting), it doesn't come as a surprise to encounter one in a thousand layers of foundation once in a while.

He asked for some tissue to wipe off some of the whiteness illuminating his face. "Have you been in love?" he asked.

It was a bit bemused. "Yes."

"Have you been hurt?"

"Of course."

I gave him a warm smile. I knew where he was getting at.

And I was right.