Bandaid

I read an article yesterday about a model who went on a penniless walking pilgrimage. I could find a good place for my things, its the memories I can't seem to let go.

"You never remembered something as hard as you could so you could tell someone later?"

It's part of being intimate. I think.

"You're jumping the boat."
"Well as long as we're both clear about that, I don't see what the problem is."

But I was scared, and tensed at certain pressure points. I'm like a coil of ropes and when I woke up, I wasn't sure why I had needed that in the first place. He's gone. His mouth, his body, his hands. And everyone, everywhere will feel different, like a bandaid for the scratch.

"Please don't judge me." It was the first thing that came out of my mouth as we stood face to face. He looked like a confused little kid and I thought maybe all along that's what he was hiding under the dye and fancy shoes. He didn't provoke me, but I fell into conversation with his inner thoughts. The kind you shouldn't have to defend. The kind that make you feel uncomfortable when ever someone brings them up. So I don't know why I went there. I don't have anything to loose.