| Ghosts of her touch |
[Oct. 18th, 2005|03:31 am] |
I let myself be haunted by the ghosts of her touch, the warm body pressed against mine, not able to keep the loneliness from spreading over me. I let my mind play tricks with my heart, old wine turned sour on parched lips, trickling down my skin, leaving sad footprints on the ground while I meander in oblivion. It's been an exhausting walk so far, and as I turn back I can only see my footprints fade off into a bleak horizon, and a long shadow marks my trail.
It has been so long since we touched, ages since I covered her, gave her comfort, whispered in her ear that I'd stay. I didn't, and now all I wish is for her to return, now that I've come back to the place where we should be, only I have no right to ask or suggest. All that's left is the ghost of her touch, and the bareness where she used to be. |
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| It Flutters, Once, Again |
[Feb. 1st, 2005|12:27 am] |
Things were never simple between the two of us.
There simply shouldn't be a "between the two of us."
And,
if
worse
comes
to
worse
We must never forget, or try to remember all that's been said,
remember all that's been kept
and feel comfort
resign to change,
resign to context, circumstance, crossroads
but
I
hope
to see you again,
not soon,
but sometime
some other way. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 13th, 2004|12:52 am] |
You never write about me, or include me in your online thoughts, even when the night was nothing short of a good one, or at least in our case, tolerable.
I wish for the day when it wouldn't have to matter whether you do or not. I wish for the day when you would mention me, or not, and it wouldn't mean a thing to me. Or better and worse, whenever you do I'd be happy, and whenever you don't, I'd die. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 1st, 2004|02:18 am] |
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I feel, so terribly, that I'm dying. Save me. Save me. Save me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 30th, 2004|12:20 am] |
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I feel betrayed. Thanks for not being more considerate. |
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| Scent of A Woman |
[Oct. 22nd, 2004|06:49 am] |
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The news of her terminal illness leaves me in shock, as her scent, to mingle with the night, slowly leaves me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 7th, 2004|03:10 am] |
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I am a worthless boyfriend. |
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| Anima |
[Jul. 28th, 2004|03:32 pm] |
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With every breath I am aware of her, and with every thought her my heart glows with her essence. She is all of them, and yet none of them, unless she takes on a face and a name, and then we possess each other. I am a man, singular and solitary, and yet my very being turns inward to find her at the core. Without a hope of discovering her face I do not live. Without a hope of knowing her name there is but death to complete my existence. I take comfort in knowing that she's there, or at least, she might be there. And even if I'm mistaken, at the very least, I looked. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 16th, 2004|12:02 am] |
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My other self has found happiness, and thus for now I disappear. |
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| There is nothing to jump over. |
[Jul. 3rd, 2004|12:34 am] |
Go win yourself a prize. Go get yourself an Oscar for acting as yourself. Bottoms up, and your glee shall be justified, and with every yellow drop your sanity ebbs away, and with every yellow drop, your body ebbs away.
my mouth is dry and I cannot speak, yet speaking will only cause pain, so I shall rather die of thirst than force myself to speak to you
Severe punishment no longer inflicted, self-immolation always predicted, burn baby, burn baby, it is what you see, what you say that will be remembered. Eat like kings, flaunt like princes, fuck like regal drag-queens on the dirty streets. It is not what you say but how you say it, and once you can say anything boring with such gusto so as to make it sound like gold, you have it made.
You have it made, you have it, maid. And you shall serve thee, and I shall serve thee.
Once, twice, thrice, to say that you love, to say that you care. To swallow your pain, to check your pride, to check that your pecker is in its proper place. That is what men are made of.
That is what fucking pansies are made of.
Complain, complain, complain, and you can avail of critical dialogue. Complain of life, live in style, work like a dog, die like a burning log. And it all comes crashing down, into oblivion and into nothingness.
It hurts. I die. I live. It hurts. I die. |
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