Tonight is perfect. Its just the three of us, hanging out in his room on the second floor with a shared bottle of vodka, a handful of cigarettes, books of poetry and music. There is the slight hint of nonspecific sadness in the air. "The Dreaming Tree" by Dave Matthews Band is playing, and we're all singing along softly. The girl says, "Music is amazing. The three of us all know the words that a bunch of random people made up."

He, my fellow destroyer, puts on a CD he bought in Paris, classical works by French composers. We're reading T.S. Eliot and Rimbaud outloud, smoking our angsty cigarettes, at last decently buzzed from the liquor.

:~:

At the heart of it all is the thought that I am good only for the random "hook up" and that no one is capable of feeling anything substantial for me.

Which is not to say that I don't agree with his thought, "sexuality is good sometimes" but rather that I'm left wanting for something more. It makes the moments like these hurt because there is a desperation for that beyond what I've known and when he crawls out of bed I realize what I'm becoming. And I hate it.