Post by luceluna on Dec 15, 2001 0:03:48 GMT -5
The tree walked in the door again today, fresh and seductive, a fingered joker. The smell prickled my arm hairs and glazed my eyes. Perhaps it is the season that brings her - the anniversary of things past. Damp, walking and Brain Tumors. Terminality.
I am returning to the old ways - my musty records, my nocturnal habits. The pathway that leads from my house to the road thrust her upon me, just yesterday. She smiled, she cried. I dreamt I saw her fainting on a distant floor, jewels and snowstorms. "This isn't about you, but..."
I think it might be the time for alcoholism. At the party, I was told he'd stop drinking entirely. He is doing so well. He has a new life now. He is unrecognisable. At midnight, I was poured out of my manager's car and into her once more.
Each night I used to seat myself and immerse myself in her. I have tried. Alone in my memory, I relive our plans. None of this mattered with the yin of my yan. Now, all I am left with is this.
I open my eyes, and see her. I close my eyes, and see her.
The foliage chokes; day lies, slovenly. Air is dead with her, while I ferment like a pale of milk, once a shock of fertile assurance, now sticky, sickly and fevered yellow. In an arm's crook, the shade wet and insolent, in the bubbling of a lung, her gulfs expand.
I used not to need anyone but her to understand me. She did not crave or need the words. The words are an illusion. The body is an illusion. Closure is a fucking illusion, but she is a masterful magician. The soul is all-consuming.
Passion lingers these halls, while she stares blankly.
I am returning to the old ways - my musty records, my nocturnal habits. The pathway that leads from my house to the road thrust her upon me, just yesterday. She smiled, she cried. I dreamt I saw her fainting on a distant floor, jewels and snowstorms. "This isn't about you, but..."
I think it might be the time for alcoholism. At the party, I was told he'd stop drinking entirely. He is doing so well. He has a new life now. He is unrecognisable. At midnight, I was poured out of my manager's car and into her once more.
Each night I used to seat myself and immerse myself in her. I have tried. Alone in my memory, I relive our plans. None of this mattered with the yin of my yan. Now, all I am left with is this.
I open my eyes, and see her. I close my eyes, and see her.
The foliage chokes; day lies, slovenly. Air is dead with her, while I ferment like a pale of milk, once a shock of fertile assurance, now sticky, sickly and fevered yellow. In an arm's crook, the shade wet and insolent, in the bubbling of a lung, her gulfs expand.
I used not to need anyone but her to understand me. She did not crave or need the words. The words are an illusion. The body is an illusion. Closure is a fucking illusion, but she is a masterful magician. The soul is all-consuming.
Passion lingers these halls, while she stares blankly.
loved it 
