Four days of my rainbow.

It's crushing me. This pathetic distance between us - knowing that I love her so much, I cannot see her because the space that she belongs to is so far removed from mine that it becomes almost obscene to travel the distance. I remember the time when she lay her head in my lap, when I felt her breath on my thighs and already it seems that the dreaminess of the moment evades me knowingly. She dances around the edge of my consciousness, yet when I try to focus on the edges, she eludes me.

They bring fried rice.

I did not want to come back and brood here for a long time, but it seems that I cannot shy away from a habitation that is so dear to me.

I met S on the 25th. Returned with a heavy heart on the 29th. These four days have strictly been without compare. When I think about it, I usually liken it to this one image I have associated with our 'togetherness' - A blue, shifty ocean.Me adrift. Me finding a strong wooden plank that is weighed down with some flotsam. Me reaching out and grabbing it. Relieved. Finding out about the flotsam. And brushing it away. The plank becomes a woman. We do what it takes to keep us afloat.

The only way I think to keep afloat, is to jettison everything that will destroy the possibility of us being together. That, I think, is the only way.

The going-away.

It's been three years. Almost. I take my leave today, I hope I can come back. And find my little virtual space as hospitable as it once was.

Exeunt Ayan Ray.

The fire-eater.

She is exotic - she reminds me of Rome, although the woman has never been there. She is beautiful - as fragile as a geisha, as resourceful as a contortionist, as lovely as a tea-leaf-picker in harvest. She is funny, like a Bavarian with a big mug of beer. Although she has never read Camus, I find that in her, I find all the vestiges of my own domesticity. Sometimes, I feel like making slow, passionate love to her, eat away at the shreds of modesty she manages to stow away with her dry cynicism, sometimes, I feel like fucking her so hard that the whites of her eyes show and that she claws my back, desperate to draw blood. I can see that she is enchanted with my virtual self, so full of the enthusiasm I manage to espouse, she finds herself at ease with my vitality, I with hers. She corrects my bad grammar with a laugh that rings through my ears like somebody dropped me in the middle of the Appalachian Trail and left me to fend for myself. She swears by her love for me, and I find myself hesitant to accept it, to tell myself it's more than just a dream. When I tease her about her insecurities, I can feel her jaw tighten as she sulks, and I want to kiss the corner of her lips, reassure her that my love for her is without remorse. And I want to pick her up in my arms, and carry her to my bed, tell her that it is here, in my arms, that she will find the sanity life cannot give her. I have plans for her. So, I will wait.