she's teetering on her own brathern image, her own contradicting existence. sitting, half-smiling, chewing on her sweet cigar who's tendrils of smoke are fully about you,
although, you could bet your last dime she'd never tell you
you don't quite know where she came from or wheres she going, she hasn't a clue either, she motions to her past with her eyes. you don't ask, you don't want to. drawn out, the color of polluted
icicles, the color of last winter when you forgot your promises. the room is silent, comfortable silence.
plywood paneled walls are stained with a raw throb of life
as if
as if
she wasn't so pessimistic about her love & the lack of it, no
the plot won't twist and yes love is lost, again
saddening? possibly, but frequent, similar to the way that she couldn't stomach a goodbye from him sometimes, to the point that she'd never say, to
the point where she'd break down in the front seat of his car on a thursday night screaming things weren't supposed to be this way.
she wants to know what runs through his mind when she's
talking circles and acting
heartless as always, but maybe she doesn't, maybe she liked the questions, it put her to sleep at night
she liked trial and error, mostly because every prediction of error was right, the ****** case
mystery, leaving without a single charge pressed or
a single trace left
she liked how love could transform from the fantasized fragment of a
slow form of magic to the painted tunnel on every wall
she keeps colliding,
her heart beat still falls
short every time she utters his name,
like the reminisce of a supernova,
in all the oddest of ways