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12.2.09
distant lover.
(lover, your lover, your lover.)
a while ago something like this would have floored me, but we started the same washing powder your mother used to and everytime i got wet i thought of you. hugging you when i got there, leaning on you, high, on the way home but most of all every afternoon, every morning, every night everytime when i would go down on you. there's me in a towel, remembering nuzzling into your dark grey boxers smelling so clean and fresh and new, kissing and breathing in that smell getting hotter with my breath which now happens when i bury my face in towel instead of in you.
it's funny, isn't it?
not funny ha ha, but funny.
different - not better, not worse, just different.
i don't know whether to cry or whether to not give a fuck. richer, happier, freer, more grown up, more pared down, i'm the fucking lite stealth fucking mark II version of myself i know. but, but still. i get told all these things, things you never even told me, about myself, compliments and invitations and suggestions and i feel like my middle is being bounced about like a ball, sloshed about like a cup in a car, and at the same time i don't care. i feel still as a stone.
part of me is old, old, old. creaky ruin. part of me regresses, turns to a child.
imagine if that time, she did die, thrown from a cliff.
now imagine if i had died that time, the time my car turned into spikes and boxes trying to keep me in.
how do you feel?
how do you feel now?
whispered by killa b at 4:36 PM |
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