xxxi. setting sun trips on the wasteland

my job is to write. yours is to read carefully and contemplate, letting your imagination reconstruct the narrative, pausing on hot spots like hands over a ouija board.
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i could tell you were taking away the key when we hit our first false note. don't talk about music if you don't want the whole piano.
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laying there, feeling you breathe into me, was all it took to make me want to learn about forever.
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i love the rains and i love summer and all the things you do between the sheets and the naked commute. come in and weather beside me and we'll let the poor seasons be.
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there is no poetry here. only words, just words.
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thank you for pushing my final buttons. everyone else had sticky fingers.

November 18, 2005

countless days can’t keep a secret. but right now, i’m too tired to tell you what it is.

This entry was posted on November 18, 2005 at 11:17 am and is filed under Alpha Male, Hate.

no one is watching