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- Thread starter Lauren Snyder
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She had always been good at being in control of herself. Sometimes she felt her hold loosening, and with a quick mental jerk of the reins she would keep her thoughts from wandering to dark places.
No one could accept her sadness. As a child she learned that some people were allowed to be unhappy; for her, it was never an option. She didn't think this was very fair, but took it to be a truism.
She had "episodes" which no one seemed to take seriously. If no one else did, why, then, should she? Like everything else she couldn't handle, she ignored them.
But there she stood, presciption in hand, the subtle smell of her psychiatrist's office lingering in her hair. As she waited for her ride to appear, she realised that she no longer needed to keep herself in line. A drug would do that for her.
So, after nineteen years of being her own jailer, she decided to let herself go.
Everything slipped away from memory. Her thoughts were half-formed feelings, wordless and primal. She wandered down the street, not recognising her surroundings, guttural utterances her only form of communication. She could see herself from somewhere else, vacant eyes dotting a forlorn face. No longer human, no longer a soul, no longer real.
-- Cars passed, pulling her back into herself. Gradually, she came back to normal, lingering while she could over the bliss of her unawareness. Her father drove up to the curb, and she got into the car.
She would escape a few more times like this, but never so completely.
No one could accept her sadness. As a child she learned that some people were allowed to be unhappy; for her, it was never an option. She didn't think this was very fair, but took it to be a truism.
She had "episodes" which no one seemed to take seriously. If no one else did, why, then, should she? Like everything else she couldn't handle, she ignored them.
But there she stood, presciption in hand, the subtle smell of her psychiatrist's office lingering in her hair. As she waited for her ride to appear, she realised that she no longer needed to keep herself in line. A drug would do that for her.
So, after nineteen years of being her own jailer, she decided to let herself go.
Everything slipped away from memory. Her thoughts were half-formed feelings, wordless and primal. She wandered down the street, not recognising her surroundings, guttural utterances her only form of communication. She could see herself from somewhere else, vacant eyes dotting a forlorn face. No longer human, no longer a soul, no longer real.
-- Cars passed, pulling her back into herself. Gradually, she came back to normal, lingering while she could over the bliss of her unawareness. Her father drove up to the curb, and she got into the car.
She would escape a few more times like this, but never so completely.
He stared up into the evening sky, surveying the distance between stars. He liked to take time to meditate upon nature; it made him feel more connected to the world.
"I bet there are millions of people out there," he said, and he gave a little sigh. "Millions of people that are better off than me."
"Or are they?" he contradicted himself. "Maybe it's worse where they are. What if they have no cities or technology? How can you see the beauty of nature without its rightful juxtapositioning alongside progress?"
He followed along the constellations, trying to remember what they were, and cursing himself for having failed to look them up, once again. He gave up trying.
"Poor things," he concluded. "Lost in the universe without perspective."
He walked along until he found the park's edge, and locked away his nature behind black metal gates.
"I bet there are millions of people out there," he said, and he gave a little sigh. "Millions of people that are better off than me."
"Or are they?" he contradicted himself. "Maybe it's worse where they are. What if they have no cities or technology? How can you see the beauty of nature without its rightful juxtapositioning alongside progress?"
He followed along the constellations, trying to remember what they were, and cursing himself for having failed to look them up, once again. He gave up trying.
"Poor things," he concluded. "Lost in the universe without perspective."
He walked along until he found the park's edge, and locked away his nature behind black metal gates.
As she lay in bed next to him, a wave of cold woke her up. Her eyes jerked open, and she remembered where she was. He was there, sound asleep.
Sometimes she would watch him with tenderness, admiring the strong commitment he made to his slumber. His lips were always pursed in a contented smile that made her laugh. She would snuggle up against his arm and stay there for a while.
Other times, she saw him as an oblivious mass. How didn't he realise that she was upset? She was sure that his emotional anguish would rouse her from the deepest sleep, and didn't understand why this was not so with him. She would think at him, she would cry in a medium-soft whimper, or bump up against him to get the attention she shouldn't have to demand.
This time, she studied him, preserving him in memory. His relative height, weight, proportions, the way he snored as if greedily sucking up air or desperately fighting for it ... his lips, his tousled hair, his eternally calm face and ... and that was all she could notice before falling back to sleep.
Perhaps she knew that she would not be sleeping with him forever, no matter what promises she made.
Sometimes she would watch him with tenderness, admiring the strong commitment he made to his slumber. His lips were always pursed in a contented smile that made her laugh. She would snuggle up against his arm and stay there for a while.
Other times, she saw him as an oblivious mass. How didn't he realise that she was upset? She was sure that his emotional anguish would rouse her from the deepest sleep, and didn't understand why this was not so with him. She would think at him, she would cry in a medium-soft whimper, or bump up against him to get the attention she shouldn't have to demand.
This time, she studied him, preserving him in memory. His relative height, weight, proportions, the way he snored as if greedily sucking up air or desperately fighting for it ... his lips, his tousled hair, his eternally calm face and ... and that was all she could notice before falling back to sleep.
Perhaps she knew that she would not be sleeping with him forever, no matter what promises she made.
Anyone could see that Jeffrey was a Man on Top of the World. He liked to think that, come the day he died, people would sit around and have great, emotion-tinged talks about him.
"That Jeffrey!" they'd say.
He never imagined the conversation to any further degree, as he thought that that would be a sign of conceit.
Jeffrey enjoyed getting up early. He found a perverse pride in being a Morning Person, and would burst into the sales office each work day with an overlarge smile on his face and a venti Starbucks French Roast half-skim half-regular (with a shot of hazelnut syrup if it was the Tuesday after a particularly gratifying extended weeked).
"Good morning!" he cried to the whole office. "Some traffic, huh?" he'd add, despite the fact that it never, ever made him late. He fancied himself a Great Interpersonal Relator, and enjoyed the time he spent commiserating with co-workers. He felt it made him more "human" in their eyes.
Though not in a steady relationship, Jeffrey liked to go to clubs and talk to women. He never got their numbers because he preferred the excitement of the first meeting to anything that followed. "Besides," he thought, "if it's meant to be, we'll find each other again."
Jeffrey went to the gym before work and after, and genuinely enjoyed workouts. Rather than listen to music or read, he would watch television and engage in appropriate television-viewing banter with those around him.
"That Maria Bartolomeo is one smart, sexy television personality!" he'd say, covering all his male-female bases.
Most days, he'd spend the evening after the gym at home, catching up on bills, the news, and letters. He thought that letter-writing was a lost art, and preferred writing them to e-mailing. Not that he was afraid of the computer, mind you -- his computer equipment was always within a year of being au courant. "There's just something about a man who writes letters," he decided.
When he went to sleep, he did so pretty immediately, between 10:30pm and 10:45pm every weekday night but Friday. He didn't usually remember his dreams, but the ones he did remember were about flying to the Isle of Capri. He imagined it to be a tropical paradise of frozen drinks, beach wear and happiness.
Jeffrey ate all of his meals alone.
"That Jeffrey!" they'd say.
He never imagined the conversation to any further degree, as he thought that that would be a sign of conceit.
Jeffrey enjoyed getting up early. He found a perverse pride in being a Morning Person, and would burst into the sales office each work day with an overlarge smile on his face and a venti Starbucks French Roast half-skim half-regular (with a shot of hazelnut syrup if it was the Tuesday after a particularly gratifying extended weeked).
"Good morning!" he cried to the whole office. "Some traffic, huh?" he'd add, despite the fact that it never, ever made him late. He fancied himself a Great Interpersonal Relator, and enjoyed the time he spent commiserating with co-workers. He felt it made him more "human" in their eyes.
Though not in a steady relationship, Jeffrey liked to go to clubs and talk to women. He never got their numbers because he preferred the excitement of the first meeting to anything that followed. "Besides," he thought, "if it's meant to be, we'll find each other again."
Jeffrey went to the gym before work and after, and genuinely enjoyed workouts. Rather than listen to music or read, he would watch television and engage in appropriate television-viewing banter with those around him.
"That Maria Bartolomeo is one smart, sexy television personality!" he'd say, covering all his male-female bases.
Most days, he'd spend the evening after the gym at home, catching up on bills, the news, and letters. He thought that letter-writing was a lost art, and preferred writing them to e-mailing. Not that he was afraid of the computer, mind you -- his computer equipment was always within a year of being au courant. "There's just something about a man who writes letters," he decided.
When he went to sleep, he did so pretty immediately, between 10:30pm and 10:45pm every weekday night but Friday. He didn't usually remember his dreams, but the ones he did remember were about flying to the Isle of Capri. He imagined it to be a tropical paradise of frozen drinks, beach wear and happiness.
Jeffrey ate all of his meals alone.
She sat in the bathroom of a hotel room in Paris, quickly chronicalling her first day abroad before tiredness overcame her. The stiff light and tile floors were of no consequence, nor were the sleepers in the adjacent room. She had nothing but memories in her mind.
As she finished up, she stood in the doorway and heard noises outside of the window that looked upon the street. She crossed to see the scene:
People were gathered at one o'clock am on a weekday night, a bottle of wine and two men at every table. The owner looked on with interest, as did she. Fragments of understood words floated up to her, and she started to cry at the lovely traditional European-ness of it all.
That was her first, her best memory of France.
As she finished up, she stood in the doorway and heard noises outside of the window that looked upon the street. She crossed to see the scene:
People were gathered at one o'clock am on a weekday night, a bottle of wine and two men at every table. The owner looked on with interest, as did she. Fragments of understood words floated up to her, and she started to cry at the lovely traditional European-ness of it all.
That was her first, her best memory of France.
David had had feelings for her for months, and he was perpetually accustomed to getting what he wanted. She was too near, too for-all-intents-and-purposes-perfect for him to ignore, or, for that matter, not to have. And why shouldn't he? "The meek shall inherit the earth, and the bold shall get all the tail," as he was fond of saying.
He had often invited her up for drinks, only to wait for a better opportunity. In his opinion, there was no rush when premium booty was at stake. But he knew the big night days beforehand.
She had been despondent over the status of her love life. He had been her rock. They grew closer, bonding over her misery. He invited her up that Saturday, and she responded a little too quickly.
It would be worth the wait, just as always.
He had often invited her up for drinks, only to wait for a better opportunity. In his opinion, there was no rush when premium booty was at stake. But he knew the big night days beforehand.
She had been despondent over the status of her love life. He had been her rock. They grew closer, bonding over her misery. He invited her up that Saturday, and she responded a little too quickly.
It would be worth the wait, just as always.
There was nothing that agonized her more than making decisions. She would run from the most trivial to the most life-changing choices. Her world had always been one where she was a certain type of person, and she took comfort in having some knowledge of whom she was.
Then there was the guy. From her first meeting with him, on the street in front of a bar, things were off-kilter. Nobody ever hit on her. Nobody ever asked for her number. And yet suddenly both of these improbabilities came to pass, and they began dating.
Soon, other realities were being shattered. She never had relationships longer than three weeks. She always heard "I love you, too" right after she'd said it herself. Nothing was working like it had before, and yet, that was exhilirating because no relationship had ever worked out like this before.
But things started to get too easy, and she became restless. Then there was an extended absence from the guy, and she wasn't sure if he was whom she thought he was. Another guy popped up, and she began to wonder to whom her loyalties lay. And she broke another of her absolutes:
She had never been tempted to cheat on a boyfriend before.
The next day, she called things off with the first guy. She drank to feel again, and spent the evening at a bar with friends, in pure silence.
And the following morning, hungover and restless, she felt uncomfortable with her own presence, for she did not know herself any more. She was a stranger, and she cried at her utter aloneness.
Then there was the guy. From her first meeting with him, on the street in front of a bar, things were off-kilter. Nobody ever hit on her. Nobody ever asked for her number. And yet suddenly both of these improbabilities came to pass, and they began dating.
Soon, other realities were being shattered. She never had relationships longer than three weeks. She always heard "I love you, too" right after she'd said it herself. Nothing was working like it had before, and yet, that was exhilirating because no relationship had ever worked out like this before.
But things started to get too easy, and she became restless. Then there was an extended absence from the guy, and she wasn't sure if he was whom she thought he was. Another guy popped up, and she began to wonder to whom her loyalties lay. And she broke another of her absolutes:
She had never been tempted to cheat on a boyfriend before.
The next day, she called things off with the first guy. She drank to feel again, and spent the evening at a bar with friends, in pure silence.
And the following morning, hungover and restless, she felt uncomfortable with her own presence, for she did not know herself any more. She was a stranger, and she cried at her utter aloneness.
What does a new bed feel like?
It is strange but yearning to be comfortable.
What does a new bed look like?
The sheets are sometimes unfamiliar, sometimes reminiscent of someone else. It has different items underneath it, offering subtle clues about its ownership.
What does a new bed smell like?
It smells like him or her. Occasionally it smells like the laundromat. Eventually, it will smell like you.
What does a new bed seem like?
One giant leap into intimacy.
It is strange but yearning to be comfortable.
What does a new bed look like?
The sheets are sometimes unfamiliar, sometimes reminiscent of someone else. It has different items underneath it, offering subtle clues about its ownership.
What does a new bed smell like?
It smells like him or her. Occasionally it smells like the laundromat. Eventually, it will smell like you.
What does a new bed seem like?
One giant leap into intimacy.
Evenings are too lived-in to be real, past a certain time of night. By 2:45am, I have collected memories more than enough, and refuse to accept more. This is why I get so lost after midnight.
I like your touch, assured like a subway car coursing down an electric track. You are new, you are metal and energy to me, and these charges can't be ignored.
You are so sweet to be quiet on my behalf, so definitively awake but letting me get my rest. Thoughts jumble, words mix and I mull over steady streams of nonsense until I sort it out enough to sleep.
Trying not to be too close to you. Wanting to be as close as possible. I am full of opposites and wishing you would turn over and kiss me.
I like your touch, assured like a subway car coursing down an electric track. You are new, you are metal and energy to me, and these charges can't be ignored.
You are so sweet to be quiet on my behalf, so definitively awake but letting me get my rest. Thoughts jumble, words mix and I mull over steady streams of nonsense until I sort it out enough to sleep.
Trying not to be too close to you. Wanting to be as close as possible. I am full of opposites and wishing you would turn over and kiss me.
Sometimes I am a causer of pain. I feel that I am nothing but a trap for nice young men to fall into, pouring their love into empty space and holding out their hearts so that I may crush them.
Sometimes I am a bringer of happiness. My being is so readily capable of love that often it arrives prepackaged within days of the beginning of a new relationship. Affection is my liquid adhesive for the emotionally scarred.
Today I have brought happiness and caused pain. I just hope that the one will outweigh the other ... or that, at least, they'll cancel each other out.
Sometimes I am a bringer of happiness. My being is so readily capable of love that often it arrives prepackaged within days of the beginning of a new relationship. Affection is my liquid adhesive for the emotionally scarred.
Today I have brought happiness and caused pain. I just hope that the one will outweigh the other ... or that, at least, they'll cancel each other out.
A Poem About Break-Ups
(or, Why Can't My Ex-Boyfriend Get That I Don't Want to See Him Anymore?)
When girls decide it's time to leave
The fellas that they've loved,
Far better 'tis to break them down
Than treat them with kid gloves.
For men like bruises purpl'sh blue
To show off to their pals
Instead of unkind comments few
And "we'll be friends". So, gals:
Remember when you want to go,
Destroy the heart they own,
Or else they will pursue you still
And you'll ne'er be left alone.
(or, Why Can't My Ex-Boyfriend Get That I Don't Want to See Him Anymore?)
When girls decide it's time to leave
The fellas that they've loved,
Far better 'tis to break them down
Than treat them with kid gloves.
For men like bruises purpl'sh blue
To show off to their pals
Instead of unkind comments few
And "we'll be friends". So, gals:
Remember when you want to go,
Destroy the heart they own,
Or else they will pursue you still
And you'll ne'er be left alone.
"Andy: A Story from the Past"
She saw him immediately as she turned the corner to walk down the alley-ish street. She was always waiting for him to show up, hoping, and yet was always surprised when he did appear.
But there he was ... undoubtedly crisp button-down shirt under casually picked sweater and slacks. Unfussy blonde hair and piercing light eyes. Tall and perfect.
He strode purposefully but not hurriedly, as if the journey were somehow part of a larger mission. Though raindrops had begun their quiet assault on the ground, he had no jacket or umbrella to protect him.
Yet somehow he had no need for them. It was as if his superior calm allowed him the ability to dodge the rainy bullets. He was magnificently inhuman, the personification of impersonality. She caught her breath.
She seemed to think that they acknowledged each other with a look or a wry smile. Her composure had decomposed at the sight of him. She worried that it would be the last time she'd see him. She had no idea of the strength of the currently occuring memory.
She saw him immediately as she turned the corner to walk down the alley-ish street. She was always waiting for him to show up, hoping, and yet was always surprised when he did appear.
But there he was ... undoubtedly crisp button-down shirt under casually picked sweater and slacks. Unfussy blonde hair and piercing light eyes. Tall and perfect.
He strode purposefully but not hurriedly, as if the journey were somehow part of a larger mission. Though raindrops had begun their quiet assault on the ground, he had no jacket or umbrella to protect him.
Yet somehow he had no need for them. It was as if his superior calm allowed him the ability to dodge the rainy bullets. He was magnificently inhuman, the personification of impersonality. She caught her breath.
She seemed to think that they acknowledged each other with a look or a wry smile. Her composure had decomposed at the sight of him. She worried that it would be the last time she'd see him. She had no idea of the strength of the currently occuring memory.
"what is going on with me"
I am tired all the time these days. There is not rest enough in eternity to grant me the sleep I feel I need.
I am hiding behind my schedule to avoid dealing with my life. It's crumbling and I feel no need to stop it 'til I must.
I seem to have a different definition of "love" than anybody else. To me, it's a level of caring that does not necessarily mean that I want to spend the rest of my life with that person. It's caused me a lot of trouble, but I can't seem to adapt to the rest of the world's denotation.
I use pronouns to disguise the fact that my stories are often autobiographical. Why is it so difficult for me to attribute not always pleasant facts to my past?
I cannot accept a standard issue existence, but do not take the right steps to break out of that trap. Who is to blame? Who would I like to blame?
I am quietly sad this evening, and just in time for bed.
I am tired all the time these days. There is not rest enough in eternity to grant me the sleep I feel I need.
I am hiding behind my schedule to avoid dealing with my life. It's crumbling and I feel no need to stop it 'til I must.
I seem to have a different definition of "love" than anybody else. To me, it's a level of caring that does not necessarily mean that I want to spend the rest of my life with that person. It's caused me a lot of trouble, but I can't seem to adapt to the rest of the world's denotation.
I use pronouns to disguise the fact that my stories are often autobiographical. Why is it so difficult for me to attribute not always pleasant facts to my past?
I cannot accept a standard issue existence, but do not take the right steps to break out of that trap. Who is to blame? Who would I like to blame?
I am quietly sad this evening, and just in time for bed.
you are so delightful to me
it's surprised me how easily i love you now
what an easy transition it was
fluid in the way that life is
He sat down under the willow tree, with hundreds of inches of shade surrounding him. It was a day of alternating punishment and delight. Life was testing him, it seemed. He could not explain why.
it's surprised me how easily i love you now
what an easy transition it was
fluid in the way that life is
He sat down under the willow tree, with hundreds of inches of shade surrounding him. It was a day of alternating punishment and delight. Life was testing him, it seemed. He could not explain why.
(Sometimes the most interesting stories are real. This is as close an approximation of the conversation as I could get.)
"I'm sorry, but can you turn the air-conditioning down a bit?" she asked, leaning forward to the open glass window between passenger and driver.
He turned down the radio, and she repeated her request. He reached around the window, and flipped a switch.
"Thanks! I'm just not really dressed for the weather, I guess," she said.
"I really enjoy the air-conditioning, you know?" he responded. "The summer is good because in the boroughs, I roll down the windows and breathe the air. At the airport, in Manhattan I roll up the windows and breathe the air-conditioning. The smoke, all the smoke, I breathe it all day; at night, black stuff comes out of my nose."
"Oh my god, that's terrible!" she said.
"If I keep doing this another five, ten years, I will die of the lung cancer," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Oh, don't say that! That's a horrible thought!" she answered, shocked.
"It's true ... it's modernization, all of the smoke, the carbon monoxide from the cars, the buses ..." he trailed off for a moment.
"I grew up on farmland. Do you know that until the fourth grade, I didn't have shoes? Every day we walked to school -- two miles, two miles there and two miles back. There were no automobiles, just sometimes horses with carts would pass. Along the river, sometimes there were ships, they ran with steam engines.
"Everything we ate was organic, without manure or anything to grow it. My brothers and I would climb trees and eat the fruits. We swam in a pond. Now we are spread out, my brothers live in Sudan, in England, in Japan and Canada, but every three or four years we have a reunion at the farmland. We haven't destroyed it, it's part of our inheritance. The children all come and they love it. The roads are now bigger, but it's still not modernised.
"Where I grew up, I didn't get any shots but for smallpox," he continued, and rolled up his sleeve to point out the scar. "Nobody had cancer or heart disease or diabetes. In New York everything is modernised but people get cancer and diabetes and heart disease."
He talked for a few more minutes until she reached her stop. She could think of nothing to do to assuage his fears but give him a big tip.
"I'm sorry, but can you turn the air-conditioning down a bit?" she asked, leaning forward to the open glass window between passenger and driver.
He turned down the radio, and she repeated her request. He reached around the window, and flipped a switch.
"Thanks! I'm just not really dressed for the weather, I guess," she said.
"I really enjoy the air-conditioning, you know?" he responded. "The summer is good because in the boroughs, I roll down the windows and breathe the air. At the airport, in Manhattan I roll up the windows and breathe the air-conditioning. The smoke, all the smoke, I breathe it all day; at night, black stuff comes out of my nose."
"Oh my god, that's terrible!" she said.
"If I keep doing this another five, ten years, I will die of the lung cancer," he stated matter-of-factly.
"Oh, don't say that! That's a horrible thought!" she answered, shocked.
"It's true ... it's modernization, all of the smoke, the carbon monoxide from the cars, the buses ..." he trailed off for a moment.
"I grew up on farmland. Do you know that until the fourth grade, I didn't have shoes? Every day we walked to school -- two miles, two miles there and two miles back. There were no automobiles, just sometimes horses with carts would pass. Along the river, sometimes there were ships, they ran with steam engines.
"Everything we ate was organic, without manure or anything to grow it. My brothers and I would climb trees and eat the fruits. We swam in a pond. Now we are spread out, my brothers live in Sudan, in England, in Japan and Canada, but every three or four years we have a reunion at the farmland. We haven't destroyed it, it's part of our inheritance. The children all come and they love it. The roads are now bigger, but it's still not modernised.
"Where I grew up, I didn't get any shots but for smallpox," he continued, and rolled up his sleeve to point out the scar. "Nobody had cancer or heart disease or diabetes. In New York everything is modernised but people get cancer and diabetes and heart disease."
He talked for a few more minutes until she reached her stop. She could think of nothing to do to assuage his fears but give him a big tip.
She had gotten into the habit of referring to herself in the second person. This was not done as a way of setting herself apart for admiring, but rather to emphasize the distance between herself and her thoughts. She did not like to be held responsible for the things she said.
"Words are meaningless -- or from my lips they are, anyway," she'd whisper to herself over the bathroom sink, eyes studying eyes in a trance, her mouth gritty from toothpaste foam. She felt that she could stare into the mirror forever, even though she didn't like what she saw. Her eyes would unfocus as if trying to find the sailboat or racehorse in a Magic Eye picture, except that nothing was revealed upon further contemplation.
She thought there was nothing to reveal, except her own one-dimensionality. She didn't know what people saw in her, and felt guilty about unknowingly tricking them into looking for a depth of character that she knew was not there.
She never had to bother with chasing friends away; they left on their own. Sometimes she thought it best for all concerned, but not often.
"Words are meaningless -- or from my lips they are, anyway," she'd whisper to herself over the bathroom sink, eyes studying eyes in a trance, her mouth gritty from toothpaste foam. She felt that she could stare into the mirror forever, even though she didn't like what she saw. Her eyes would unfocus as if trying to find the sailboat or racehorse in a Magic Eye picture, except that nothing was revealed upon further contemplation.
She thought there was nothing to reveal, except her own one-dimensionality. She didn't know what people saw in her, and felt guilty about unknowingly tricking them into looking for a depth of character that she knew was not there.
She never had to bother with chasing friends away; they left on their own. Sometimes she thought it best for all concerned, but not often.
(Are all of my stories sad? Not really ... )
He opened the door to the taxi-cab, and she dove in, as per usual. He casually tumbled in beside her, and gave instructions to the driver.
They looked at each other. When their eyes met, he always seemed to be studying her face for the reason why she was dating him. She couldn't help but smile as she succumbed to the warmth of intimacy.
They kissed in the usual way, heads tilted to the left, lips parted to make way for better mouth-to-mouth contact. As they pulled back, she would often catch his lower lip between hers, and they would both grin at her knavery.
Her head dropped on his shoulder, her face buried in the folds of his shirt. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulder, hand free to rummage through her hair.
They talked idly about their evening. Every so often they would pause, raise their heads in unison, and indulge in another kiss.
Tuesday nights were routinely spent in cabs like this. They became more cherished through repetition.
He opened the door to the taxi-cab, and she dove in, as per usual. He casually tumbled in beside her, and gave instructions to the driver.
They looked at each other. When their eyes met, he always seemed to be studying her face for the reason why she was dating him. She couldn't help but smile as she succumbed to the warmth of intimacy.
They kissed in the usual way, heads tilted to the left, lips parted to make way for better mouth-to-mouth contact. As they pulled back, she would often catch his lower lip between hers, and they would both grin at her knavery.
Her head dropped on his shoulder, her face buried in the folds of his shirt. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulder, hand free to rummage through her hair.
They talked idly about their evening. Every so often they would pause, raise their heads in unison, and indulge in another kiss.
Tuesday nights were routinely spent in cabs like this. They became more cherished through repetition.
poetry for reading in cafes in an exaggeratedly anguished manner
can't sleep, my brain too idle
thoughts are roaming in the wild
naked ambition's hiding under covers
and it's time to rip 'em off
twenty-five years of following passions
leaving projects in every empty room
time to finish one thing i've started
choose a discipline and reach my limit
is it wise to run from art to art?
can i find success through creative excess?
or should i find a path and stick to it?
i get so bored so easily.
my priorities are wrong.
i get too distracted by love.
by not having it
or by having too much.
i need guidance!
my youth is wasting my youth.
i need support!
money gets me down.
i need love!
loneliness is consuming.
i need structure!
even my poetry is splintered.
i need too much of everything but take no one's advice.
can't sleep, my brain too idle
thoughts are roaming in the wild
naked ambition's hiding under covers
and it's time to rip 'em off
twenty-five years of following passions
leaving projects in every empty room
time to finish one thing i've started
choose a discipline and reach my limit
is it wise to run from art to art?
can i find success through creative excess?
or should i find a path and stick to it?
i get so bored so easily.
my priorities are wrong.
i get too distracted by love.
by not having it
or by having too much.
i need guidance!
my youth is wasting my youth.
i need support!
money gets me down.
i need love!
loneliness is consuming.
i need structure!
even my poetry is splintered.
i need too much of everything but take no one's advice.