Saturday 9/08/2007 12:17:00 AM

Pretty freckles on her arms pull her underwear down over her thighs. He's there. Not quite inside her. But near enough that she blinks a little quicker.

Her irises swim in bowls of milk to big for them. Snap. Crackle. And popping to the motion of her thoughts. As they flicker across her stare. Bits of movies we'll never live to see. But we were in them. If you look close. We were there when the cue cards went blank. Suffocating for lack of our own words. Sex the foul antiseptic for all rotten flesh. Chunks of dialogue lost to closed-captions of the heart. I'm always deaf when it comes time to hear what hasn't been said. Always mute when it's time to tell them.

What I've been thinking.

The pretty of sad songs as they combine with cold sheets. Metabolizing slowly in the Arctic of my abdomen. Casual dilemmas. Like how close we might've come. Frail ironies. Like how far away we actually were. The chirp of crickets outside my window and inside my head. Buckles easing open against the force of the slightest touch. The weight of the air before a storm. The dark clicking its heels to flee this oz.

There's no place like home.

The perfunctory orgasms of cold sheets quickly dust off storage whore cunts. In a sweeping sermon it teaches us how to save ourselves without having to rescued.

That little girl in little boy shorts. She's yours. Not anyone else's. His trench coat shrugs. The weaker we are the better this is.

Those windows. Always with the lights on. Now I know why.

4 comments:
AnonymousT said...

So sad and so true.

ap said...

not really sad.

if you're fond of living.

but true enough though.

AnonymousT said...

Must be I'm fond of living, although I've never really thought about it that way. It's just something that happens when the conditions are right, like thunderstorms.

ap said...

true enough.



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