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another way
It�s the way of the world I guess. The gone become the forgotten and all that remains are the naked Polaroid�s we�ve accumulated throughout time. The photo booth pictures of us in black and white smiling back at me. The waving hands that seem to move like mercury, or the first time I came in your palm. The day I suddenly wasn�t too shy to take my clothes off even as the daylight cried through the curtains. But I can�t remember the day I stopped caring. It�s the way of the world. And even when we fucked and looked into each other�s eyes and it seemed like it was magic, it wasn�t. I don�t even remember if we did that. I�m just assuming that we did because it�s the type of thing I would do. How come all I can remember are egg sandwiches? And the time I looked in the mirror and felt fat. And the way I wanted to clean the oven but didn�t know how. And the roaches. The cats and the fireplace and the roaches.
I am so scared, because even as I try to remember you right now, nothing will come. What was it like when you slept in my bed? I remember the sheets gathered around our ankles. A broken air conditioner, I�ll have to fix that. This is the way of the world.
There is a room somewhere, where all the break-ups hang out together. They run into the torn up letters, the ones that are burned at the edges, burned by all the lighters that have fallen out of our pockets. Missing wallets and lipsticks without their caps on hang out together and kiss with their tongues. No one cares. The way of the world isn�t a secret, but how come it tricks us every time? Once upon a time you were naked under the sheets. I went to touch you but you moved away. I remember that. The way my hand felt when your skin slipped away, the shame. The flushed cheeks of the world all meet up and talk about this very thing. I won�t miss them.
2:12 a.m. - 2006-03-03
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history - mystery
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