Sunday 7/16/2006 11:34:00 PM

"And I find it kinda funny,
I find it kinda sad,
The dreams in which I'm dying
are the best I've ever had."
-Tears for Fears, Mad World

It's only Sunday. Dog ears in the carpet testify. What has happened. What isn't likely to occur again. Faded denim in his stare. Holes slowly finding their way through it. Zippers undone with a click of the tongue. Lips dressed in shades of forgotten. Necks wearing only music as the trust is drained from them.

He was finding himself anew and I wanted to follow, but I wasn't invited.

So I wished him well and turned my attention to myself. My corner. As it festers with words unfit for poets. Let alone people looking to be human.

Die again. Wearing the dirt as my nightgown. The flutter of a lullaby in his throat. When he would swallow. Trying to digest the meat of this darkness. It seems unreal, I know.

Maybe it is.

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