Saturday 4/28/2007 11:40:00 PM

There were no children in their future. Nor consolidation of trusts. Just a series of emotional enimas to pay off the mortgage on their hearts.

The world a box of crayons. 64 colors of men to test against the so many blank pages. I'd always imagined myself drawing the outlines, but never being the one to fill them in. I'd always treated sex as a tool. A way to repair what is broken.

I wish I knew what he thought as we flirted with oblivion. The differential honesty of lies. Making strangers of sex. The calm of hopelessness arriving in doses of despair. In words not loud enough. To scream as I do in my head. In cliches as naive as love would ask of us.

I only know the paper. How long it waits to be born. In cramps of ink that menstruate as poets pretend to know what to write. I only know how it sounds when there's nothing left to want. All those people like candles going out.

Our pain is the yardstick we meausre all our happiness against.

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