And Then I Think of Him

“It feels good not to have to sleep alone.”


I fall asleep in the concave of his back. The valley between shoulder blades. My fingers in the soft hair at his neck. It’s a restless sleep and I roll away from him again and again. His feet find mine under the covers. His arms a cocoon and his lips on my forehead when I burrow down and under and away from his kiss. The hands that run over my sides and down to my thighs. The fingers that keep asking questions I can’t answer. The shifts and the pushing away and the turning over that are a million different ways of saying no. I emerge somewhere between wake and dreaming and my heart fills with nausea, prickles of hatred develop in goosebumps on my skin; the man in my dream is not the man in my bed. Our broken hearts are palpable. His and mine. In the dark we curl around each other.

“Your bed is so short,” he says stretching his legs diagonally across mine.

“It’s a Lindsay-sized bed.”

“I fit.”

I pause, letting the silence dangle between us in the air, searching out his eyes in the moonlight from my window.


I am tired of ferrying these hearts. I am tired of being a stepping stone. There is something calming in the depths, the icy stillness of the water. If I could dive in, if I could swim on and on and down into the pitch, the empty black, and never reach the bottom. Lay suspended there, weightless, until I run out of air. Would I do it? I don’t know anymore.

It feels like another kind of nothing. Something new to fill up the space with, to use up the hours that aren’t spent with him. I try not to hate the dreams when my desires and real life collide. When I wake up missing parts of myself and I have to hunt through my room for them; under piles of clothes; in cluttered bags; in amongst the trash I can’t bring myself to throw away. Where am I?

I think about what I will do if I never want to hold another hand. I think about where I will go if I never make another home. I think about the men that I have kissed and all the faces I don’t want to see when I close my eyes.

And then I think of him. Because, I always think of him.

Noah and the Whale – Blue Skies (Live)


18 Comments Add yours

  1. Ambles says:

    Very honest. I love reading your blog, because it seems like you’re not afraid of yourself. You just say what you mean.

    1. Lindsay says:

      Thanks Ambles. I try to be as honest as possible but being honest about your emotions is like riding waves. Something you said yesterday might not be so honest today. You know? I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore…

      1. Kristan says:

        No, it makes sense to me.

        Also, this is my favorite post since I started reading (granted, that wasn’t that long ago…). Beautiful writing.

  2. BadIdea says:

    I couldn’t have said it better myself. A boy was holding me on the couch today and all I could do was just close my eyes and pretend more then anything that it wasn’t the boy who was here but actually the boy who I love. I still remember every touch from him and I miss him so much it burns…and sometimes any male holding me numbs the ache. But never heals it. No, it’s always there…and it always will be. Because I will never love another….

  3. Hunter says:

    Here’s hoping that ‘almost’ is replaced by ‘perfectly’ sooner rather than later.

  4. Akirah says:

    Girl, you can write. Damn.

  5. mysterg says:

    That is possibly the worst feeling in the world, the moment between dreaming and waking, when you realise that the two are not one and the same.

    I’m not going to give you trite advice, except to say, think of him still. Lose yourself in those moments, embrace them, hang onto them for dear life. One day, however it may seem, your heart will move on. So enjoy those moments whilst you can, despite the pain they may cause you now, before they fade into dust.

  6. J.L. Hutson says:

    You could take misterg’s advice.
    It’s certainly sound.

    Or . . . don’t think of him at all.
    Think of me, instead.

    You don’t know me, so . . . you can make me into what you will.
    You can perfect me.
    Or not.

    It’s been years since I drank like I learned to drink.

    But I am having a few too many drinks tonight. Thank god.
    And I’m toasting you with every single one.

  7. J.L. Hutson says:

    Excuse me.
    I meant to say “mysterg” . . .

    How embarrassing.

    Like I said–drinking like I learned to. Wreaks havoc on the spelling.

  8. Andrea says:

    This is beautiful.

  9. Noel says:

    You know what sucks? I threw out his toothbrush today when I was cleaning my apartment, cleaning out his things out to make room for the excess that I’ll bring into my life. I couldn’t help but feel that there’s something lonely looking at my toothbrush holder being by itself.

    1. Lindsay says:

      Something lonely and something poetic, which is how things tend to turn out for me, too.

      These little relics we hang onto until it seems pertinent we get rid of them. Like a switch goes on inside that says enough is enough.


  10. floreta says:

    i really love how you describe this scene! the subtleties of the conversation, yet it is an integral part of the piece.

  11. Hannah Miet says:

    I often feel like I don’t show my appreciation for your writing because I relate to it so much.

    I immediately want to say that I was there, or tell you it felt like a snapshot from my past, except alive with feeling.

    I want to say that in my snapshot, I couldn’t take it anymore. So I starved. I slept alone and felt alone, but I stopped feeling nauseous. No one knew what a Hannah sized bed looked like and I let it be that way. I let the thoughts empty me. And eventually they emptied him. Eventually I felt stronger from it all, from feeling it all in silence.

    I want to tell you that your words tie ropes around my emotions and connect them to the stories you tell. That your writing just makes me feel a lot and remember a lot.

    Since your writing is beautiful and can (and should) reach so many people, I feel selfish for relating it back to me. I’m sorry for this, but I also thank you for this. For being my river…the unexpected surface where I catch my reflection.

    Oh, and I agree with Mysterg, who is much better at being unselfish.

  12. And maybe one day it’ll come full circle and you can have those moments again… only to realise you don’t want them.

  13. curly su says:

    It’s hard to read the comments and then comment. I usually don’t – read the comments, that is.

    But, I did, and so…

    If and when you move on, it’ll be the right time to do so – and meanwhile, feel how you want to feel. Allow other people in, or don’t… you’ll find the right path. Another person’s path is not/should not be your own.

  14. Mr. Apron says:

    My favorite part of this piece is “Almost.”

    Says it all.

  15. Cindy says:

    You make me want to feel again… feel anything.
    I’m excited for you:)

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