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Array
(
[sid] => 181155
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Not quite love
[time] => 2015-05-19 19:58:23
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => I’ve been trying to tell you this for a week now, but, I am not the one. Go, before it’s too late to stay gone. My shadow has grown jealous of the time we spend at 2am on Saturday nights. Not during but always after. Us. Tangled and listening to Nina. You. Exhaling smoke into the darkness. Me. Frantically looking all over my schedule promising to find time to lose the “us”. How am I both of these women? One who is pathetically desperate for your fingertips and another who screams for you to stop touching her so loudly. My shadow follows me around all day, materializing at night. Sometimes it has my face, sometimes it has yours but mostly, these days, it has his. Once in awhile, it lies down in bed with me, facing me with his eyes set to intensity. It tells me in his voice, “Remember when everything was going to ***** but you were happy? Like that night in May spent sitting on the trunk of my car underneath the stars. We were waiting for a meteor shower that never came, yet the whole sky seemed dedicated to us.” And just when I begin to play with the memories, my shadow shape-shifts, laughing at how I can’t seem to let go. Holding the memories over my head, taunting me as I jump and fail repeatedly at grabbing them. I feel incapable of anything but I swear I’d go to war with myself over him again. Except the thing about civil wars, is win or lose, your hearts always a causality. I struggle for something concrete in my array of mass contradictions. So I begin this routine with you. You, Nina, the smell of smoke, and promises I can’t keep… somewhere between a woman who desperately longs to be touched and one who’s forgotten how.
[comments] => 1
[counter] => 255
[topic] => 73
[informant] => Cathartic
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 0
[ratings] => 0
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => abstract
)
|
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