You are the Susie to my Calvin.
When you quit something, like smoking or drinking or cussing. Or people. The only way to do it is cold turkey. None of that less and less each day bullcrap. You've got to make a complete 180 degree turn.Otherwise you'll keep smoking. You'll drink again. You'll swear. So that's what I'm doing with you. Dropping you, cold turkey. No more of this letting go fifty percent. No more thinking of you. No more you.
I think I will quit drinking a l c o h o l for a while.
.....
You sleep straight on your back, snaking your arms around listlessly --
searching for my body that you treat as a landscape.
As hills, as valleys, as plateaus.
I cannot convey the extent of my sadness. Even if I could adequately explain to another person the things that I felt with her - calm, confidence, joy - even if I could get this across to another person, it would only be the beginning. Then I'd have to explain what it is like to have had all this, even if only by chance, and then to have lost it. I feel incompetent. My legs are numb and won't move - my words are nothing but silent. I see myself sitting there saying nothing as she slips away.
I think she could be really good for me.
But than again, she already isn't. Suddenly, sitting from afar is not enough anymore. Sly as ever, the mind plays monotone games.
You are my complimetary angle. I need to make something with my hands, something I can touch and cup.
Death leaves a lust in your joints. A sick and perfect spider. Don't you know such a thing? You must not touch it, but you will and you know you will the instant you know you mustn't.
It's what tired is. Tired is death too. A curling finger beckoning come home. Come here.
Like a good fuck and nothing you rub against satisfies your urgency. Like a momentary slam or gasp, to yell no against something, put your word up stiff like a wall.
If you want to know what I want, I'll tell you because it's easy. Because I haven't got the time to wait around until you figure it out.
