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she hadn't seen that coming.
she missed him actually.
she wept at his loss.
fucking weird.
her Monday continued to ooze and fester as she processed the
gone kinetic energy a bit more.
he was just like Charles Bukowski and didn't know it.
although Chuck did not claim to be a good fuck.
"And yet women -- good women -- frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep." C.B.
it had been an admirable woo. she was rather impressed. unlike what studies said, he was able to complete the transaction and voila - the cop due elation.
yet once more with feeling.
the entire time she sees herself as this untouchable puffball. the most honest thing:
"my life is a defense mechanism."
"I wonder already who the next lay up will be."
"but you're not a player. and you're confused."
The first time she laid eyes on him, she felt like it was a mechanism. he was a mechanism. His utter breath calculated to ethically bag the pray.
sic.
Nothing was dishonest. Nothing was untoward. She peeked out of her glass eyes to see slivers of something yet she couldn't tell what it was. She appeared to be on autopilot.
She hadn't shown him Wilco's "at least that's what you said". She didn't dance with him.
That had been something right? The qualifier for her next relationship will be that she can motherfucking REALLY dance with him like she can with dan and mark.
it was on her though.
she was the one who choked. she was the one who said "no, I'm not dancing with you. you'll mock me. you'll deride me. I don't know how to see myself as beautiful in your eyes and unconditionally adored."
Reflected ego and if only they had had meat loaf at the restaurant in that savannah town. it's all about the trust and she was bundled with electric nerves the entire ordeal.
first, it became apparent that she was tolerated.
which sucked. then, she was an audience to tribulations and laments of erudite erections. She became a vessel. she was a vessel. she vesseled. he reluctantly became her therapist because he had a lingering cold and a loose gut feeling.
he loomed large, and he was of course a boy.
aren't they all.
It didn't make sense. he tried zero to woo her. she felt mediocre and adequate and the very best. Instead of a compliment fest. It was a hiding and hedging of silly bets.
Walking down the river street. She wanted to kiss him and hold his hand, but it was all business and missions with this one. she passed something that was surely the place - a ghost of young narcissi stealing a pub glass down her boyfriend's borrowed khaki pants as she shines her light.
thirty years later, her body is
fucking done
fodder for fat desperate
wounded men...
and she cried for an entire day
that the light went away...
forgive me
and let my trespasses be forgiven.
p.s. I bet you think this is about you...
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