intimacy: to write or not to write

I sit in a semi-solitary chamber, isolated in various ways including my own cleverly fashioned ones. There are barricades all around me.. humour, wile, cheek .. and assorted devices to avoid closeness of any kind. These days, whenever I fear that I'm getting too close or too attracted to someone, I throw them in the same room as someone else I know they will be drawn to.

My only hope is that they will notice my half open eye, watching as they slowly inch towards each other, as their barricades dissolve, as they surprise each other and get closer and closer to the dangerous zone of intimacy. There's a silly absurd pleasure in doing this. The only sexual situations that interest me anymore are those in which there is a ghost or ghosts of many other people. Names mentioned, sexual indiscretions disclosed and brushed aside.

And then there is the intimacy of this.. the shameless divulging in words to connect, to draw lightweight strings around, breakable, temporary moments that allow delight and no return.

Yes, the moment is over. and then again.. this is the catch of the lightness of one moment, and not a year or many years.. its repeatable as if nothing happened before.