Obsession Compulsive Disorder- One of my many demons. I wash, I check, I count, Always in multiples of 19.
My mind is never silent. My thoughts race- I can never keep them organized. But that night I met him, My mind went silent. The number 19 did not cross my mind once.
As I laid there, Resting my head on his shoulder, His arm in my lap, I traced my fingers Over the colorful ink That covered his skin. I did not once try to count The tiny crosses or gold coins That were intertwined with a wave.
As he held my hand Late in the night, I thought only of the roughness of his fingertips, Calloused by years of guitar playing. I did not think of the germs that were being transferred onto my skin.
The next morning, as we laid there, tangled in each other's arms, I didn't think that maybe the door was unlocked or maybe someone forgot to turn off the oven. I did not feel the need to repeatedly check.
When he left, I tried not to cry, knowing that I would most likely never see him again.
When he left, I sat in my room and thought about how incredible those 18 hours we spent together were.
When he left, I tore myself to bits, because our encounter was one hour short of 19.
Short ****** poem that I'm writing at 1 am in the middle of an episode.