this is not a story.

I've read the depths of your thoughts and written the words that describe just how you feel but I don't know who you are, how you smile, the way your eyes seem to speak volumes, the sound of your laughter, or any of these simple things. I don't know your name, because you're not real and I can't make you whole.

but really all i wanted was to get so drunk that i couldn't see his face in the darkness and i could pretend his lips were yours and that his flesh on mine felt the same as yours might if ever i let down my guard.

my heart is racing past my mind to stumble over you
and i lie in flowerbeds on the roadside as cars hiss by
trying to decide if i'll stand or wait for you to try
and i think that i want to play the fool.

relic.

and now my boredom is uninhibited and all i can do is wish to be somewhere i might be enetertained. and i wait untill my words run together on the page and my thoughts seem unclear, and in the meanwhile bad honky tonk blares and idle chatter, whispers and shouts all work together in the background. it seems somewhat ridiculous to be here. nothing to gain, nothing to be lost, closed case. the final chapter has been written, the mold has been cast and the clay's in the oven: burning.

our three left feet make fools of us.
i pace myself to not appear rushed.
bitter, stale but free of lust
our three left feet make fools of us.