breakfast for dinner
- November 12, 2014
- CleanLaundry
- 2 Comments
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set aside today specifically to write and I can't fucking write.
okay let's try this –
red blossoms are falling on my fingers which are stalled on laptop keys –
maybe this would be more romantic if it were pen & paper but my pen hemorrhaged a week ago when I bumped into you in the garden. your eyes met mine and my pen literally burst, ink smudged my palms and my jaw which I ran a shaking hand over. nauseated, I dragged my eyes away, thinking "be like water to rocks, be like water to rocks."
that was a week ago and I still wish I was in the Japanese countryside, at least then I'd be justified in feeling like a gaijin.
darling, I really liked what we were doing, but the honest truth is that I was using you for your sexytime playlists. I picked up the best music when you turned the lights down and the speakers up.
that's not the whole truth. the whole truth is I liked you a lot more than I was prepared for. a shame our rhythm was like two ticking clocks left to their own devices.
once had a friend who was born with perfect pitch. I would run through guitar chords over and over until he would pick up on something average ears couldn't dream of, and his fingers would shoot out like lightning to nudge a peg ever so lightly, back to equilibrium.
that's what we were like. something was dangerously out of tune, but both of us were wearing the same earmuffs. or maybe you took them off ages before I did and chose not to say anything. fuck. why didn't you say anything?