Friday 7/20/2007 11:54:00 PM

Celebrating dying as we were seemed appropriate. Given that is the one thing we're always doing. Life surreptitiously killing us. In spits of love. In jousts of sex. Adding each tiny number to arrive at the sum of nothing.

He'll always be older than me. For the rest of our lives. This mediocre marathon that forces us to run when all we want to do is walk. These years. Each one briefer than the one before. Leeches in every touch.

You don't become Galahad overnight. There's a period of waiting for the grail to recognize your purpose. You don't go to sleep with your armor on, but that's how you dream. Too real to ever be rest. Too often to be genuine.

You don't fall in love the same way you write it down. Toiling over adjectives. Little gardens made of slate. Rigid flowers made of skin. Blooming. In burgeoning cracks. In weak stems that buckle under the weight of the sun.

Like I did. Like we were. Hoopeless enough to live.

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