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Tuesday, December 03, 2002
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(longing and rememberances past): (stolen) The sound of my voice when I am alone makes me quiver sad-skin & desolate eyes. I am not iamnot this kind of tragedy, but the way I echo, I could almost believe it. (You've always had me, like this, up against glass walls. out over the days monthsyears. You've always done it.) These are rememberances of what could almost be another life. I've been spread seven years across your blue-eyed galaxy. The way I laugh and the way I bleed, here, now, where our short-lived months finally gather like raindrops. Like snow. And my memories: part torn faces of photographs, part the soft padding on your old bed. Lying horizontal between what I have infront of me, and all the things I can never leave behind.
(& I keep thinking about the way your mouth feels.)
And you, telling me that if you ever said it, it would be for a very long time(ifnotforever). And me, grabbing onto that and onto every word that came out of your mouth, finding every syllable a split second before your lips made the motion. Dreamsdreams, coincidences are lies, the universe has constantly been at my disposal and though I fight less, I struggle more as I learn (over and over) that love and possession are only shit that's motivating the desire to fill.the.empty spaces. that have always (w i l l a l w a y s) exist. Because I no longer believe. And you...when you finally did tell me... The thing was(is)..(and what I don't understand), is if what I feel: this magnitude, this uncompromising, this unconditional (but you couldn't let it be), this all encompassing..if this wasn't/isn't it, then I have to re-evaluate everything. (And I always do.) If all it ever is is illusions, then I am the best magician..and the biggest fool.
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