rain pours and closet doors • River Phoenix

entry two

March 8, 1988.

amour

Here I sit on my bed writing about the affair that happened only last night. Rather than speaking about it.

The feeling was infinite, timeless, magnificent. The pleasure unwilling to stop when time was definite. Her lips only left me unimaginably yearning, yearning for the touch again.

My skin was aflame wherever she placed a palm, or intertwined her fingertips. I felt completely venerable in the circumstance, that the reminder of it sheerly mortifies me.

Everywhere she picked up her flesh, mine would sting with infatuation. I had never felt the eagerness of such hormones, that it abashed me to apprehend what I could of been thinking.

Never would I imagine the pain I felt when she toor away from my lips, snatching my hands off her figure.

I watched her silhouette march back up the sand, and down the road.

I felt this bizarre anguish in my chest inside my rib cage, that it was almost impossible to not run and follower her.

I accompanied her until she made a turn into her house, and closed the door grimly before I could enter in with her.

My whole body tingled with amour affliction, as I walked back to my house down the street.

I found myself impossible to fall asleep after the accident I had created.

These thoughts kept souring through my mind at four o'clock this morning.

"What did I do?"

"Did I touch her unknowingly In a spot she didn't want me to?"

"Did I bite her?"

"Was she mad at me?"

"Was I her first kiss?"

"Did I hurt her?"

"Does she hate me now?"

"Do I hate myself now?"

"Did she fall asleep peacefully?"

Many more jumbled my brain till it exploded into weeps. I had never cried so much over someone so irrevocable.