Wednesday, July 06, 2005


She pushed me away as she pulled someone else close. She won't realize it until it's too late. It's not that I'm boring or predictable, -I'm simply not him. She will sit and deduce and surmise and postulate and pontificate about why things turned out this way. The answer will escape her, however, because when you keep someone at arms length, you have to settle for the hand out. While you dream of the warmth that the heart may very well be capable of, you lose sight that it is very well adept at keeping all knowledge of said warmth away from your very fingertips. Yet still, something in her wonders, "what if?"

She will see me and make small talk, -light subjects summoned on a whim to see if I miss her. She will ask me about family, how I'm doing, then she will cleverly slide in a question asking my whereabouts without seeming as though she is prying, something slick and ingenious like, "So what have you been up to?" and the ever sinister, "Tell me how you've been busying yourself." My responses will be generic, easily misconstrued for I have mastered the vague.
She'll cloak her curiosity in parties and meaningless dates with men who fancy self-branding, evidenced by their treatise on their favorite subject: themselves. They'll spend money on her left and right, but she will be emotionally starved. She won't ask too many questions, nor show signs of regret. You'll catch her daydreaming however, -off into the sky somewhere- wondering if we still gaze up at the same moon.
She'll convince herself that she was right in leaving; that it was for the best. She'll rue her decision, -constantly reminded by the barrage of pangs that she gets in her stomach when our songs play.
She'll go home to a nightcap; audience of one, and reach in her trusty drawer for her back massager "to ease out the kinks," or at least thats the story she tells. It's more likely that I receive a day-old belated birthday message. Oh, and the ink in which the word "stupid" was brushed across my forehead? That came from her well of plenty that one would otherwise refer to as "tear ducts." Her regret is bubbling. Votives are present. A bath is drawn, but her emotions never stay inside the lines. She was forced into her artistry, never consider hues until a certain "who" was no longer in the picture.Perfect. This is her blue period, - her Guernica.

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