Saturday 1/06/2007 11:50:00 PM

It's a pun of the heart. A careless boomerang. The words we say to them coming back to us. If I had enough drugs I'd admit that I've only wondered if I could love them. As much as I love the idea of losing them.

The hiccups of sex had me swallow somethings I never would.

People scoff at depression. Assuming it's an attitude rather than a conditon. They devour the words and the images it creates. Forgetting the person. The veins. The fingers. That lift its glass to her lips. In her thirst. In her desert she befriended the sand. In her delrium she named the letters that made the words. Every little piece of the conversation having its own identity. Its own reason to listen.

Long after everything had already been said.

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