The room full of noise and chatter,
The meaningless conversations full the ambience.
The beating of my heart becomes heavy, so full, taking over. The. Sounds. Crippling my vision.
As the rhythm speeds, my face remaining emotionless, never letting anyone see what lies inside - The screaming and thudding in the core of my passive body.
My fingers curl and I begin to shiver. The room still filled with ugly souls and beautiful smiles.
I just manage to pull myself up, keeping my head at balance just until I exit.
Leaving the building. Falling to the floor. The knock of my head.
I see beauty for the first time.
You give me butterflies
I've never felt like this before
The touch of Your breath on my lips, your hand runs along my leg, squeezing it with such intensity.
How I respond to your touch, with quivers - my whole body reacts to the way you feel me up and down, lingering in my weak spots, provoking my awaiting passion.
Your lips, so smooth, running down my neck. Sweet kisses, gentle nibbles
as you hold me and as I cling to you.
Holding your arms around my waist, forcing me close to you, still feeling your breath gently on my lips. Not being able to take my hands off of you, still clinging to your body and your eyes never leaving mine.
Your breathing increases rapidly and my heart leaps -
The movement of our bodies against one another, finally feeling alive, the frenzy of our love overtakes you. I see who you are, your soul.
Why are you trying to forget while I struggle to keep the memories alive? Holding the cigarette between my fingers just like you taught me – trying to take advantage of every memory.
Knowing that it’s far over but still keeping you with me incase.
Just so you know I was thinking of you. Just so you know.
However all done in vain - you have forgotten, erased and damaged anything that was left.
Here to us, we had it good.
"I woke dreaming we had broke
Dreaming you left me for someone new,
And you cried drying those brown eyes
Crying you're sorry, sorry won't do."*
Irony - I hate irony.
Nothing more than an escapist.
How do you expect to achieve in life, people ask.
But the question altogether misses the point. The escapist does not want to
achieve. He simply wants to get away.
This day arises each month with an energy so convincing.
Even without the digit, the energy, so heavy, reminds me of what today will bring. Or what is
had brought rather, and what it will retain.
I wonder what the contrary remembers and hoping it was not absurd.
I need a place to go.