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posted by [personal profile] id at 01:55pm on 04/06/2010


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posted by [personal profile] id at 12:09am on 14/06/2009
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posted by [personal profile] id at 12:00am on 29/05/2009
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posted by [personal profile] id at 01:20am on 28/05/2009
We used to make love in the back of the cinema, the shallow breaths swelling with the soundtrack, catching in our throats at the climax. I would drive you home afterwards, a crooked smile flittering across my lips, my two hands relaxed at the wheel. Sometimes we would meet mid-glance, your withdrawn eyes, your soft fingers on my thigh, and I would take you for another ride, thrilling and unrestrained, transported away from the half-filled streets. Our scents mingle, our limbs entwine, the shape of your face defined by the light that seeps through the thin glaze on tinted windows.

We used to share our intimacy with the rest of the world, holding and releasing, along the park benches. Our beds were bare but I buried myself within your walls and wanted nothing more; now the curtains are drawn, the pillows worn thin, and all that's left is a spacious ceiling under which there is no room to move.
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posted by [personal profile] id at 01:56am on 26/05/2009
The shutters let in just enough light to give the illusion of shooting stars plummeting from the tower behind the old t-shirt factory. When I opened my eyes this morning, the dusty layer of clouds was wrapped around the sky like a frightened lover who couldn't decide when their time was up, the sharp sting in my bones reminiscent of my lucid visions, bordering on the edge of another lifetime. The cluttered table, the empty chairs, the neat line of folded hearts on the windowsill, one for each time you showed up and two for when you forgot. The old woman on the same bench tells me of her youngest daughter's marriage and her newest grandson's christening, and I smile and say all the right words in the right places, words and places that begin distant and disjointed and end with indifference. She walks away and I pull out the sheets of sentiment, tracing the familiar symbols that have melded and followed the passage of time; only I am still grounded in the dead roots of last season, during the month I can't quite name. The old identities and faces, cut and tossed away to make room for the revisions, the improvements, the documentation of a journey with the elusive momentum reaching just beyond. The past is irrelevant, the inconceivable and unconceived.
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posted by [personal profile] id at 01:19am on 24/05/2009
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posted by [personal profile] id at 12:59pm on 20/05/2009
It's all just a game. Every time, only a game. We say things, we hurt each other, we find reasons to hold onto grudges and find perverse comfort in the aftermath. We cling to our pride—the temporary victory—and wait for the other to cave. The impasse shifts just enough so we each take turns at feeling the friction and the first innocent tug of the downward slide, waiting for the finality that does not mark the end.

Then the stagnant breathing, the bruising warmth that tells you you've broken something beautiful again.

June

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