Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Juliet: when we made love you used to cry

Comfort comes in strange forms, it can be laid out in front of you, kinked and creased and you can spread out like old maps in dusty libraries. I could run my palms over topography lines, and outdated destinations; I could trace the outlines of misguided vacations kept firmly under my thumb. You can curl your hands around the small of its back and nuzzle its soft neck. Regret is easier to handle when it comes in the form of a silk wrapped blond. We could turn the music up to drown out the sound of the self doubt ringing in my ears; we could turn the music up to feel the bass throb as we grow closer.

We could spin on empty dance floors; we could lie to each other in silence; we could betray ourselves with simple disingenuous glances. We could stab blindly at silhouettes and curse what substance we know of each other. Intent is a funny thing, subtlety is biting and I hope it leaves wounds. Because if I were to leave an indelible mark on you I wouldn’t want it to come from my hands. Because just to spite myself I just pulled my teeth and found a new word for everything.

Juliet; the dice was loaded from the start.

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